


A Matter of Choice

by fadagaski



Category: Hartenstraat (2014), Il Padre d'Italia (2017)
Genre: Bisexual Daan, Gay Paolo, Kid Fic, M/M, Single Parents, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:20:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27773671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadagaski/pseuds/fadagaski
Summary: "Destiny is no matter of chance. It is a matter of choice." - William Jennings Bryan.When Paolo reaches out online for advice as a single father of his miraculous baby daughter, he receives a reply from a fellow single father living in the Netherlands.
Relationships: Paolo/Daan
Comments: 197
Kudos: 164





	1. June 2017

**Author's Note:**

> The author: has to write a TOG big bang fic, a TOG zine fic, and a TOG gift exchange, as well as finish her filthy smutty TOG series.
> 
> Also the author: starts a new crossover fic that will interest maybe three people, including the author herself.

Even before leaving Sicily, Paolo has to spend half his life savings on things for Italia: a Moses basket, a baby-carrier, a pushchair that can change configuration as she grows. Clothes too, with indulgent help and a lot of cooing from the shop assistants; he buys colourful onesies, knit cardigans, booties that refuse to stay on, little hats to cover her soft hair, bibs to catch the disturbing amount of drool and vomit she produces. At the supermarket he is overwhelmed by the range of toys until a mother with three in the shopping cart picks out for him soft teddy bears and rattling plastic things in bright primary colours, and also a pack of pacifiers saying, “You’ll be grateful, trust me.” Then there are the chunky packets of powdered formula, and the collection of bottles, and the boxes of diapers - so many diapers, yet somehow he plows through one pack in two days with no sign of slowing down from Italia. 

She’s still the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, though, even with spit-up smeared down her front. In the hotel room the night before the ferry ride back to the mainland, he can’t sleep. He sits up in the bed with Italia dreaming on his thighs, stares at the gentle rise and fall of her belly as she breathes, little fists flexing where they’re thrown up over her head, and his heart aches behind his ribs, the most exquisite swelling agony. _I’m going to give you the world_ , he thinks, as the future begins to take shape in his mind. 

In Calabria he hesitates, but in the end he sucks it up, makes the detour, and arrives at Mia’s childhood home. Nunzia, Italia’s grandmother, greets him at the door with perfunctory cheek-kisses, brown eyes wide and fixed on the baby strapped to Paolo’s chest. 

Inside, Nunzia busies herself in a way that would be calm and graceful but for how she doesn’t seem able to stop moving. She offers him coffee, biscotti. “You must stay for dinner. We're having gnocchi. Your room is still free if you want to rest a while.” 

Italia is drifting off again after a bottle of warm milk, just a flick of blue beneath her eyelids as she listens to the sounds in the room. “Do you want to hold her?” Paolo offers, and means so much more than that. This is a good house, sturdily built, with plenty of room for a child to grow up surrounded by her aunties and cousins, loved so hard by her grandparents that she barely notices the hollow left by her mother. 

Nunzia’s mouth pinches tight. She folds her arms, shakes her head. It’s worse than a slap to the face. “I can’t help you,” she says. _You won’t help us_ , Paolo hears. _We are alone_. 

He leaves in the morning without saying goodbye. 

Taking the train north is slow and hot and pungent, but Paolo has never been more popular. Every woman seemingly wants to fawn over Italia, and he receives a dozen subtle and not-subtle offers of companionship. He turns them down as gently as he can without revealing the truth: his experiment in heterosexuality has netted him the most beautiful daughter in all the world, but he has no desire to twist himself into the wrong shape again for another miracle. 

Ten minutes from Paolo’s apartment in Turin, in the back of a taxi packed in on all sides by the monstrous amount of stuff he has had to buy, Italia explodes the kind of disgusting, leaking shit with which he is fast becoming familiar, and starts wailing. 

She is still wailing when they arrive. The cab driver, chewing his gum at three times the speed than he was at the start of the journey, helps dump all of Paolo’s stuff onto the sidewalk, takes his money without a word, and drives off fast as a beat-up Fiat can go. Paolo’s ears ring with the pitch and volume Italia can reach. Six flights of stairs between him and his apartment, stomach churning with anxiety as Italia turns alarmingly red, and he doesn’t know what to do with all this stuff in the street that someone is going to steal as soon as Paolo turns his back, and all he can think is that Italia, with that pair of lungs, could become a singer when she’s older, like her mother. 

Mrs Brambilla sticks her head out of her first-floor window. “Who is killing that baby?” she shouts. 

Paolo stares blankly at her. Italia cries and cries like her heart is breaking. He knows, from experience now, that there is newborn-shit soaking into his shirt. 

Mrs Brambilla clucks her tongue and disappears. She comes out the front entrance wiping her hands on a dish towel, which she slings over her shoulder. Her bushy eyebrows have risen up her forehead. She looks from the baby, to the stuff on the floor, to Paolo standing mute and overwhelmed. Clucks her tongue again. “What’s her name?” 

“Italia,” Paolo croaks. 

“Beautiful. Get her upstairs quickly. _Giovanni_!” This last she bellows in the direction of her open window. A moment later, scowling around the pipe in his mouth, her husband appears. “Come help move this stuff.” 

“No, please -” Paolo barely starts before Mrs Brambilla holds up her hand and he subsides, watching as Mr Brambilla takes in the scene and shuffles out. 

Together they manage to haul everything upstairs in one trip each, cheered on the whole way by Italia’s miserable weeping. Mr Brambilla goes back downstairs as soon as the last bag is dropped, but his wife lingers in the doorway, looking around Paolo’s apartment while sucking on her teeth. 

“I’ve got six children and nine grandchildren,” she says. “If you need help, you come ask me. Yes?” 

Paolo stands among the piles of stuff just as he did in the street, lost as a man at sea, and nods. The door closes with a click. 

Dazed, Paolo moves through the motions of unstrapping Italia, peeling her off his chest - the scent released is disgusting; how can something so small and fragile produce such an outrageous smell? - and putting her, after some dithering, onto the sofa. She’s cried herself out, down to disgruntled grizzles as he strips her soiled clothes off, handles the diaper with extreme care. By the time she’s cleaned up and dressed again, she’s almost asleep, and Paolo’s heart rate has climbed down. He almost feels like he knows what he’s doing. 

A glance around his apartment quickly disabuses him of that confidence. This dingy, barren place, with no TV, no radio, one bedroom, a tiny kitchenette. This is where his daughter is going to grow up. There’s nothing of the history of the house in Calabria. No family here. No crocheted blankets and shared meals. It’s _worse_ than an orphanage - at least there the nuns knew how to raise children like Paolo, and there were playmates and toys. Maybe she would be better off … 

Italia snuffles on the sofa. Paolo looks at her and feels love like a stone in his throat. Stripping off his filthy shirt, he gets to work unpacking, determined to turn this into a home for his little miracle. 

* * *

Two months later, home looks like: a Moses basket that moves from room to room as required, a stack of bottles in the sink perpetually in need of washing, baby clothes in varying states of cleanliness scattered across furniture, a lingering scent of shit and formula suffusing the room. 

It is three in the morning, and Italia is still crying. 

Paolo has never felt so tired. In the day he works at the DIY store while Mrs Brambilla looks after Italia. He comes home in the evening, collecting his daughter and a plate of leftovers, and vanishes into his apartment, puts on the new radio for Italia to listen to while he wolfs down food and grabs the quickest, coldest shower he can endure. Afterwards, he feeds Italia and puts her down to sleep, then breaks open his decrepit laptop to continue his distance learning course. The life he wants to give Italia costs a lot more than he can afford on the pittance he makes now, but it means investing both time and money in further education, and those are both things he is sorely lacking. 

Just when he is getting ready for bed, like clockwork, Italia starts to cry. It’s been two weeks of this and Paolo is at his wit’s end. She’s clean and warm and dry, she’s fed, there’s nothing scratching her, no sudden frightening noises, her nose is clear and her tiny fingernails are blunt and she’s as perfect and beautiful as the day he first saw her. Nevertheless, she is inconsolable. 

Paolo paces around rocking Italia in his arms for so long his biceps start to seize up. His eyes are bruised from lack of sleep, cheeks gaunt where exhaustion has sapped the meat from his bones. The walls of his apartment seem to close in, a claustrophobic box trapping him inside with this darling girl, this miserable creature who demands nothing and everything, and he will never be enough for her. 

There’s no one else, though, not at three in the morning. Mrs Brambilla says Italia is a dream baby to dote on during the day; he cannot go down six flights of stairs with a wailing infant at three in the morning to beg for her help, not when she already does so much for Italia. 

Paolo is alone. 

In desperation, he boots up his laptop, squinting at the blue screen as he opens his internet browser and types in: _Why is my baby crying?_

He realises straight away that this was a bad decision. Words jump out at him - colic, teething, breast milk, allergies -and he has no idea where to begin, feels even more insufficient and unworthy of his little miracle. All the websites talk about what the _mother_ can do for the baby, and it’s at this point Paolo clutches Italia to his chest and starts to cry. 

The morning finds them both unconscious on Paolo’s bed, Italia lax across Paolo’s chest, Paolo drooling into his pillow, salt dried tacky in the corners of his eyes. He sleeps through his alarm, calls in ill despite being out of paid holiday and sick leave, even though he needs the money and Assunta warned him he was on probation after “that bullshit stunt” he pulled. 

He just - can’t. Can’t get out of bed. Can’t think about dropping Italia off with Mrs Brambilla. Can’t think about taking the bus, always late or early but never on time. Can’t think about customers and uninspired store displays and spending another day building a kitchen from a flat pack, a weak imitation of the carpentry of his childhood dreams. 

He closes his eyes against the sunlight streaming thin and grey through his window and goes back to sleep. 

Italia wakes him up a little while later, rooting around his chest with animal instinct. Paolo drags himself out of bed to warm up a bottle of milk. His laptop is still whirring away on the kitchen table, Google search open and damning. In the cold light of day, it’s easier for Paolo to be sensible, logical, but scanning through the links still makes his gut twist. Surely he can’t be the only single father of a daughter in all of Italy. Surely he’s not alone. 

Propped upright against his chest, Paolo manages to feed Italia with one hand while pecking at the keyboard with the other to type in to Google, _single fathers italy_. He frowns at the list of dating websites that pop up. He’s not looking to fuck a single dad; he hasn’t fucked anyone at all, since Mia, which is a peculiar thing to realise, something he tries not to think about. Refining his search, _single fathers italy chatroom_ , doesn’t do much better. 

On a moment of inspiration, he tries again, only this time in English. He finds an American forum with a European subsection. A lot of Germans posting in their native language, some Danes writing in English that’s much better than Paolo’s own, a few Swedes with English even better than that. No obvious Italians. 

Frowning, he slumps back in the chair. Italia has just about finished her bottle, so he scoops her over his shoulder, a towel double-folded to protect his clothes as he pats her back, still staring hard at the computer. He can’t be the only one. Perhaps there is another Italian single father sitting right now at his laptop, looking dejectedly at the forum filled with northern Europeans and feeling all alone, just like Paolo. 

Paolo will have to be the first. 

Italia spits up more than expected, streaming halfway down Paolo’s back. With a sigh, he goes to get changed again, and then he’s back in front of his laptop with a post prepared in his mind. 

_I have a little girl aged 2 months. At night she cries and cries for hours no matter what I do. How can I help her? Is there anyone else here who lives in Italy?_

For good measure, he runs it through Google Translate and adds the English version at the bottom of his post, then hits Submit. A second later, it appears in the forum. 

The temptation to hover over his laptop refreshing the page is strong, which is why he has to get up and make himself busy. With the day suddenly free in front of him, he gets started on the laundry pile that never seems to diminish, ploughs through the unwashed bottles in the sink, brings Italia’s Moses basket into the bathroom while he cleans, humming along to the pop music bopping out of the radio in the living room. Mid-afternoon he makes himself a sandwich, eats it standing in the kitchen with the laptop open but too far away to see. Only after Italia has finished her bottle, had her diaper changed, and is back in her basket asleep again does he allow himself to refresh the page. 

One reply. 

In English. 

Paolo swallows thickly. 

He reads it twice, then runs it through the translator to catch the words he didn’t understand. 

_Hi, welcome to the forum. I live in the Netherlands. My daughter used to cry a lot too when she was a baby. It turned out she was waking up because she was hungry and then was too upset to eat. Calm her down with skin to skin contact and try feeding her more in the evening. She might have colic, too. It isn’t serious but you should probably take her to a doctor if it’s been going on a long time._

Well, it’s better than nothing. This man might not live in Italy but he’s thrown out a rope for Paolo to grab hold of. 

_Thank you_ , he types in English. _I will follow your words._

It’s better than he had before.


	2. July 2017

Sat at the table spooning cereal into her mouth, Saar is studying the postcard before Daan has even had his morning coffee, which is why it takes a good half a minute for him to deduce who it’s from, at which point his stomach twists into knots. He presses a kiss to the top of Saar’s head, lingering there a moment to scan the perfect penmanship, written on a beach somewhere in Bali. 

It’s addressed to them both. That’s a small kindness. 

He catches the gist - _… beautiful hotel with an amazing spa …_ , _… such fantastic scenery, like a living painting …_ and _… the most delicious curry I’ve ever had …_ \- before he pulls himself away, lured by the promise of caffeine. 

A moment later, Saar slaps the postcard on the table and shoves it away from her. The air catches it like a kite and sends it fluttering to the floor. Daan turns, leaning back against the sink, arms folded. Behind him, the kettle clicks to life. “What’s the matter?” 

Saar scowls, an expression that has become more and more common as she has approached her tenth birthday. Especially since Katje left. “She didn’t say ‘wish you were here’.” Saar kicks the table leg, sending sugar-sticky milk splashing out of her bowl. She does it again, just because. “You’re supposed to say that in a postcard. ‘Wish you were here’. Even if it’s not true.” 

“Is that what your teacher said?” Daan well remembers the Fortnight of Many Postcards, as does the rest of Hartenstraat, when every day Saar delivered hand-drawn, carefully crafted postcards to all their neighbours on the street. Most are still pinned to corkboards and fridges, a kind of piecemeal Saar gallery. 

Saar kicks the table leg a final time, lip curling down in a pout, and Daan’s heart pulses in sympathy. He drops to his knees next to her chair, hand on her small shoulders to tug her close and she throws herself into his arms, not quite crying but grateful to hide in the shelter of his embrace for a little while. Daan tucks her head under his chin, rubs a hand over her back in soothing strokes, hushing under his breath and rocking her like he did a decade ago when she was tiny, the most magnificent accident to ever happen to him. 

“She misses you,” Daan murmurs. He knows it’s true; towards the end, when things between he and Katje were fizzling out, Saar remained common ground between them. Before she finally took that flight to Bali, Katje had made him promise that she could still be a part of Saar’s life. _Like a fun aunt_ , she had said, suitcase at her feet, smiling weakly. 

Saar pulls out of his arms, scuffing the heel of her palm across her dry, blotchy cheeks. Daan catches her hand and presses a kiss to her fingers, then pretends to bite at them just to make her laugh. Not too old for that trick, yet. 

“Come on, it’s the first day of your summer holiday. What’s on the agenda?” 

Like a switch flipping, Saar becomes her childish self, squirming with sheer joy as she plots out the day’s activities, and her plans for the summer, and who she wants to invite to her birthday party. Daan hums in the right places between sips of coffee and lets his little accident’s enthusiasm buoy his own wilted spirits. 

The thing is, he’s a romantic at heart. He’d been young when he married Inge during the first year of university, beautiful in her cream dress stretched over the swell of her belly, and it _had_ been love between them, but not one that lasted the growing pains of schooling and parenting and familial judgement when he dropped out to look after Saar so Inge could finish her Bachelors. 

Older and wiser, he really thought Katje had been The One: someone who made him laugh, someone who made him better, someone with whom he could grow into gray hair and wrinkles. 

Two years. That’s how long he got with The One. 

And what hurts worse than the bruising inside his own chest is seeing how Saar opened her heart to Katje. As much of a romantic as her hopeless father, Saar embraced Katje as family, and now has to learn the bitterness of an incomplete grief. Katje is still here; she’s just not _here_. 

Saar decides eventually on a trip to the swimming pool, which involves unearthing Daan’s trunks from their last resting place (rolled into a ball and tucked inside a baseball cap after some long ago vacation) and a frantic purchase of a new pair of goggles for Saar when the rubber on her old pair snaps. They bike from Hartenstraat with Saar in the front carrier facing backwards so she can talk to Daan, hands gesturing wildly as she paints the perfect tenth birthday party, while Daan peddles and thanks his lucky stars that Amsterdam is flat. 

The pool is, predictably, overflowing with kids celebrating the end of school. A fair few parents had the same idea as Daan and booked the day off work, and it takes some searching before Saar finally finds a free locker for their stuff. Then they join the throng streaming through the showers and out to the pool where the chlorine smell is thick and the screams are loud. 

In the end, Daan has Saar to himself for all of about five minutes before she spots some school friends and they dash off to join the line for the big slide. Daan treads water, dodging a pool noodle fight and some very enthusiastic splashing, to watch Saar in line, chatting with her friends, grinning wide with her two front adult teeth so prominent. No trace of the sullen mood from breakfast. 

In a week she’ll be ten. 

In three years she’ll be a teenager. 

Winded, Daan swims to a sedate corner where an underwater shelf allows people to sit and chat beneath a warm, gentle rain. He can see Saar from here as she climbs to the top of the slide tower, hopping up and down with excitement. 

He doesn’t realise someone is talking to him until a hand brushes his forearm. Blinking, Daan turns towards a pretty woman, blonde hair swept up in a bun, freckles dotted across her cheeks, an amused smile curving the corners of her generous lips. 

“Hi, sorry, did you say something?” asks Daan. 

The smile widens. “I asked who you were looking at.” She gestures out at the crowded pool but doesn’t shift her green eyes off him. “Must be someone cute to hold your attention like that.” 

Daan’s brows rise before, face warming, the surprised smile breaks free. “Ha, yeah, my - uh, my daughter.” He points up. “She’s about to go down the slide.” 

Saar descends shrieking with glee, landing in the water with an almighty splash. She comes up grinning and scopes the pool until she spots Daan, waving manically at him. Daan waves back, heart melting in his chest. 

“Oh, she’s very cute,” the woman says. “I can see why you were so distracted.” When Daan looks back at her, she smiles at him, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Is her mother here?” 

For possibly the first time in his life, Daan is facing a flirtatious woman and all he feels is - exhausted. Tired of the dance before it’s even begun. He can see exactly how this could go, _should_ go: small talk about children, about single parenting, about their jobs; an exchange of phone numbers, maybe a risque kiss on the cheek when they part ways; meeting for coffee in a couple of days, a meal a few days after that, probably sex in a couple of weeks; introducing her to Saar, more dates and texts and passionate nights at her house or his; slotting into each other’s lives over the span of a few months, finding out the pet peeves, the idiosyncrasies, the personal rituals and peculiar habits; then the cooling off, the growing apart, this person’s family emergency, that person’s work problems; until they finally break up, and Daan has another scar etched in his heart, and Saar has lost all faith in love. 

He can see it as clear as a movie, and he doesn’t even know her name. 

All this he thinks in the blink of an eye, but something must show on his face. The woman sighs, shrugging a narrow shoulder, and offers him a _had-to-try_ kind of look before she swims off. 

A part of Daan hates to see her go. He misses being in a relationship, with all its joys and all its pitfalls, the romance and the arguments and the domestic day-to-day normality of living with and loving someone. But a bigger part of him feels only relief: a bullet dodged, an axe avoided. 

Saar will soon be a teenager, and the deli business is booming, and his parents have both made comments about a family reunion in Tunisia that will no doubt take over Daan’s entire life. He just has to accept that there’s no space right now for a relationship. 

Half way up the stairs for the big slide again, Saar points Daan out to her friends, and they all start waving. Daan waves back, smiling. 

Maybe, when Saar is all grown up, there’ll be time then. 

* * *

That night he lets Saar stay up way past her normal bedtime - a perk of summer carried over from his own childhood - and they eat pizza and cookies in bed while watching Star Wars until Saar passes out after midnight with chocolate smeared down her chin and crumbs littering the sheets. She takes up an awful lot of space with her arms and legs both flung wide to catch a breeze from the open window; the heat hasn’t kicked in fully, but this year is promising to be another scorcher. 

Nursing a beer bottle and a bit of a sugar high, Daan sits cross-legged in front of his laptop as the last of the credits roll down. Then, out of habit, he opens his email. Work invoices, adverts for vacations, a final newsletter from Saar’s school. His spam folder has seventeen messages, which he scrolls through out of boredom. Twelve of them are reminders that he has matches waiting for his reply! He deletes those with extreme prejudice, then goes into his trash folder to open one up, unsubscribe with a forceful click of the button, and then clear them out of his trash for good measure. Of the five spam emails remaining, four are from ‘Iraqi customs officers’ trying to reconnect him with a missing fortune miraculously stored at a facility in Baghdad. He deletes those too. 

The fifth is a notification for the single fathers parenting forum he joined ten years ago when he was young and overwhelmed, and he smiles to see it. 

Clicking the link takes him straight to his direct messages, where _paolo1988_ \- possibly the most uninspired username in the history of the internet, which makes Daan smile even more - has said: 

_Thank you for your advice. I took her to the doctor yesterday. They gave her some medicine for colic but it isn’t working yet._

The message is only half an hour old. He can’t picture the man’s face but he can definitely picture him pacing the room with his crying baby in arms. Poor guy. Daan’s been there. 

He hits reply: 

_Glad I could help. Colic is a nightmare but it **does** pass, I promise. Give it a few weeks and she’ll be sleeping through the night again._

On the bedside table, his phone vibrates on silent mode, Inge’s name flashing on the lit screen. The smile slips from his face as his heart drops. He snatches the phone up and brings it to his ear. 

“Inge? Are you okay?” 

“I - yes,” she says. Daan’s breath lets out in a shivery rush. “Sorry, I only just realised what time it is. I’ll call back in the morning.” 

“No, it’s fine.” Scrubbing a hand over his face, Daan shuffles off the bed so he doesn’t disturb Saar. “You only lose track of time when something’s really worrying you. What’s wrong?” 

Inge chuckles, rueful. “You’ll never forget that time in -” 

“Second year, yeah, with the stove and the beans.” Daan smiles at the memory, before refocusing with a frown. “Inge,” he says softly, “tell me.” 

“I’m pregnant,” she whispers. 

Daan goes cold with a flash of déjà vu. He shakes it off. How he is meant to respond, he has no idea. Fingers flexing around the phone, he settles on a tentative, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

Inge sniffs, a sound Daan knows all too well, and his heart splinters. 

“Sweetheart,” he says. “Talk to me.” 

“Roderick and I were talking about it, y’know, hypothetically, in the future. I had Saar so young, there’s still plenty of time, and I love my job, you know I love my job.” 

“You do,” Daan says neutrally. Her love of the job was one of the bigger problems in their relationship, but it’s eight years past. 

“So we thought, maybe in a couple of years. But now …” 

Daan leans against the wall and slumps down until his ass hits the floor, knees pulled up to his chest. “Another accident.” 

The way Inge laughs sounds more like crying. She quickly hushes herself. “Another accident,” she agrees. 

Silence falls between them. On the bed, Saar rolls onto her back and starts to snore the way she does after too much cheese. 

Daan gathers his courage in one breath. “What are you going to do?” he asks, but what he means is _What are we going to do about Saar?_ Inge and Roderick have a very fashionable two-bedroom apartment in the heart of the city, and Daan has this studio flat above the deli, and neither of those places are big enough for the way their non-traditional family might be about to change. 

Inge swallows audibly. “I don’t know,” she wobbles, and hangs up. 

Letting the phone slide down his shoulder to his lap, Daan thunks his head back against the wall, eyes closed and gut churning from more than just pizza. His mind is a whirlpool of conflicting thoughts and instincts chasing each other round and round. 

Eventually his ass grows so numb it hurts. He levers himself off the floor and stumbles on pins-and-needles to the bed, where there is just enough space in one corner for a father to sit next to his profoundly unconscious daughter. Gently he strokes the hair from her face, then traces a finger over her cheek, still pudgy with childhood. Not for much longer though. How quick a decade can go, and yet how much she has grown in that time. She needs a room of her own. 

Time marches on, and Daan once again is running to catch up. 

He pulls his laptop across his legs, intending to begin the search, when he sees he has another message from _paolo1988_. Poor guy must be as sleepless as Daan himself. 

_They sleep through the night? I pray to our Holy Mother that it happens soon. I’m so tired._

Daan rolls his eyes. He’s known a few Italians in his life; this guy is Italian through and through, discernible even in a message that has been run past Google translate. 

Saar mumbles something in her sleep, flops over and curls into Daan’s thigh, thumb slipping into her mouth like she used to when she was small. Daan smiles softly, and strokes a hand through her hair. He frowns, though, thinking about Inge’s news, and how they are going to break it to Saar. 

When he turns back to the laptop, he is in a decidedly different mood. 

_One day you are their world, and all their problems can be solved by you. And then they get bigger and start to explore. Then they go off to school and their world expands, and you can only be there for them as a safe harbour. And the more they grow, the further they roam, and the more complicated their problems become. And you’ll remember fondly the time when you were their everything._

Heartsick, he opens a new tab in his browser, pulls up Google, and types in _houses for sale amsterdam_.


	3. August 2017

The cat-clock on the wall says it’s 9am, but Daan always sets it fifteen minutes early so that Saar isn’t late for school - even though, being the end of August, it’s currently still summer holidays - which means he has fifteen minutes before Inge arrives. Behind the closed bathroom door, Saar is singing her head off. 

Nerves prickle like ants under his skin. He’s tidied up, straightening the bed covers and picking up the discarded clothes that the both of them perpetually scatter at random around the flat. He’s made dark coffee for himself and chocolate banana pancakes for Saar. He’s gone through his mail on the prowl for any more Katje surprises like last month (of which there are none, thank God). 

Thirteen minutes. He almost feels sick. 

Out of desperation, he opens his email for the fourth time that morning. He’s instantly gladdened to see a notification for the single fathers forum. It’s been a week since he last heard from _paolo1988_ and he’s been wondering, as a method of distraction from all the worries in his own life, how the man has been getting on. 

_She only cried for three hours last night_ , reads the latest message. _For the first time in a month, I slept more than five hours in a row. Thank you for your advice._

Daan allows himself a soft laugh, relieved on behalf of this internet stranger. _I told you it would get better. Enjoy the sleep while you can - she’ll probably start teething soon. That’s a whole other headache._

Through the open window, Daan catches movement approaching the street door. He sticks his head out. “Morning.” 

Inge looks up. There’s no sign of a baby bump, but then she didn’t show with Saar either until she was well into the pregnancy. “Morning,” she says softly. “Can I come up?” 

“Of course.” 

Inge has her own key to the street door and the apartment door, giving Daan just enough time to pour a glass of ice cold milk, Inge’s most common craving when she was with Saar. He holds it out for her as she enters and something behind her eyes fractures. 

“Daan,” she says, head drooping. 

The bathroom door opens with a wisp of steam. “Mama?” Saar says. 

Inge brightens, pivoting on the spot with her arms open to catch Saar’s running hug. “Hello darling.” She presses a kiss to Saar’s wet hair. “Are you all packed and ready?” 

“She needs to eat first,” Daan says. “Come on, both of you.” Inge opens her mouth to protest. “I know what you’re like,” Daan interrupts, eyes just barely flicking down to her belly and back. “I even have salted hazelnuts.” 

Inge and Saar sit at the table while Daan dishes up pancakes, forgoing his own to make sure there’s enough between the two of them. 

“Aren’t you going to eat, papa?” asks Saar. 

“I’m not hungry right now,” Daan says. He shoots a quelling look at Inge over the rim of his coffee mug. “Go on, dig in.” 

On the radio plays an English love song by a singer Daan is too old to know the name of, while out of the window the sounds of the street filter through, conversation and footsteps and laughter. 

Saar grins at her parents around a mouthful of mashed up pancakes. “This is so nice. We never get to eat together as a family anymore.” 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Daan says, rather than addressing that can of worms. He doesn’t look at Inge - until she puts down her fork and takes a bracing breath. His stomach plummets through the floor. 

“Actually, Saar,” she says, “we wanted to talk to you about our family.” 

Saar’s mouth drops open, eyes widening. 

Daan knows exactly where her mind has gone. “We’re not getting married again,” he says. 

Saar wilts like a flower. Biting his lip, Daan beckons her onto his lap, where she sits facing her mother, her back to his chest so he can wrap his arms all the way around her, burying his nose into her wet hair. 

Inge smiles at them, watery at the edges before she pulls that professional lawyer calm onto her face. She takes Saar’s hands in her own. “How would you feel about moving in with papa more permanently?” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“Well, right now you spend a few days at my house and a few days at papa’s house. What I propose is that you spend weeknights here with papa and the weekends with me. What do you think?” 

Saar glances over her shoulder at Daan, a frown marring her face. “I don’t understand,” she repeats. 

Daan squishes her a little tighter with his arms, an old prank to get her to smile, but it doesn’t work this time. “Your mom and I have been talking, and we think it’s time you had a room. A proper room, all to yourself.” 

“But I have one.” Saar turns back to Inge. “At your house.” 

Inge shifts on her chair. “The thing is, we’re going to use your room for something new. You see, the shape of our family is going to change again. And -” 

“You and Roderick are divorcing too?” Saar asks, voice pitching up with worry. 

“No, my love. Roderick and I -” Inge leans forward and presses Saar’s hands to her belly. Her voice wobbling dangerously, she chokes out, “I’m having another baby.” 

Daan’s heart is pounding, though he forces his body to remain relaxed, almost boneless, his entire focus fixated on Saar sat astride his thighs, braced for any reaction she gives. 

There is no reaction. Saar sits very still leaning forward on Daan’s lap, palms resting on Inge’s barely curving belly, and doesn’t say anything. 

Inge shares a worried glance with Daan over Saar’s head. 

Daan bounces his legs a little. “Saar? Are you okay?” 

Saar flops backwards, hands holding Daan’s wrists where they rest crossed over her tummy. She plucks at his arm hair. 

“Honey,” Inge murmurs, scooting off the chair to her knees. “It’s okay, Saar. Whatever you’re feeling is okay. You can tell us whatever you’re thinking.” 

Saar knocks her heels back against Daan’s shins twice before she finally speaks. “So I’m gonna be a big sister?” 

Inge smiles nervously. “Yes, sweetheart. How do you feel about that?” 

Another kick of the heel. Daan shifts his legs wider to at least change the angle when she kicks him the next time. 

“Is it a boy or a girl?” 

“I don’t know yet.” Inge covers her belly with a hand. “I’ll find out in October, probably. Two months away.” 

Saar falls quiet again, still plucking the hair on Daan’s arms, head lolled back against his collarbone and warm wet hair trailing all the way down his chest. Then she rolls sideways and buries her face into his neck. Daan’s arms immediately encircle her as he shares a worried look with Inge. 

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs into Saar’s ear. “Talk to me.” She gives a hitching, shuddery breath that punches Daan right in the solar plexus. He clutches her tighter, rubbing a hand over her back, a kiss pressed to her head. “Baby,” he says helplessly as Saar grinds her forehead against his shoulder. 

“It was an accident,” Inge blurts out. 

Saar stills. Then she raises her head. “What?” 

Inge knee-walks closer to rest a hand on the small of Saar’s back. “Like you were, darling. This baby. He or she - they’re an accident, like you were.” 

“The best accident in my life,” Daan says. 

“And mine,” Inge agrees. “You know what it’s like to be a happy accident. This baby is another one. How lucky am I to have two happy accidents?” She smiles, though there are tears in her eyes. “And this baby is so lucky to have you as a big sister. I know you’ll be the best big sister there ever was.” 

“Mama,” Saar moans, face breaking as she launches into Inge’s arms, crying in earnest. Daan slumps back in his chair and swallows around the lump in his throat, watching while Inge rocks Saar side to side there on the hard kitchen floor, trying to shore himself up so he can be solid ground for Saar, whose whole life is about to change. 

Eventually they both calm down enough that Daan can get them off the wood floor, Saar on his hip like she’s still a toddler, Inge gripping his hand tight as she struggles to get her numb legs under her. “That’s the last time I’ll be doing that for a few months,” she says with a wry little chuckle. 

He sees them off at the door for their weekend together with kisses for Saar and a solemn promise from Inge that they will call him if there is any problem, or any hint of a problem, even if Saar says it’s nothing. 

After that, the weekend is his. With the deli doing so well, he’s got two part-time employees now, university students who are flexible with their hours and are happiest when they’ve got Saturday afternoon free. That occupies him until closing time, turning a booming trade in juices and milkshakes more than salads and sandwiches, but Katje taught him to listen to customer demand if he wants to stay afloat. 

Late Saturday night - so late it’s actually very early Sunday - he’s sitting in bed with a beer and half a thought on pulling up a porno for some long overdue self-care when his email pings with a forum notification. He smiles to himself; at this time of night, it’s pretty obvious that _paolo1988_ has once again been denied permission to sleep. 

_Are you awake?_ writes the Italian. _She cries if I stop holding her. I have no one to talk to._

Daan’s heart goes out to him. _I’m here. My daughter is at her mother’s house tonight. How are you?_

_Very tired,_ comes the swift response. _I work, I study, I look after the baby. I do not sleep._

Pondering the date in Paolo’s username against the idea of him studying, Daan replies, _I had to drop out of university when my daughter was born. It was too much to do both, and her mother wanted to be a lawyer._

The next message takes longer to come. So long, in fact, that Daan has brushed his teeth and is under the thin sheet he uses in summer. His email pings just before he’s about to shut the laptop. 

_That must have been difficult. I have to ask - Do you regret it?_

_Never_ , Daan says, and closes the lid. 

Later that same Sunday morning, after a long sleep filled with dreams of babies, Daan is lounging in bed wearing just his boxers, enjoying the novelty of spreading out across the whole mattress, lethargy in his limbs and no demands on his time. 

At the sound of the street door opening, his head jerks up. Feet pound up the interior stairs, then the apartment door flings open. Daan jumps out of bed. Wet-cheeked, Saar spares him one red-rimmed glare before she storms into the bathroom, slamming the door shut so hard that a crack forms in the ceiling plaster. 

Inge appears in the front door, panting with exertion, a weighty cardboard box in her arms. Daan hurries to take it off her. “What the hell, Inge? You promised you would call me!” 

Inge’s chin wobbles. Freed of the burden, she turns and flees back down the stairs, leaving Daan in the entryway with a box labelled ‘Saar’ in Sharpie, while through the thin bathroom door, the eponymous girl is ominously silent. 

* * *

Paolo has pulled a truly ridiculous amount of overtime since returning to Turin because his boss - Assunta - was sympathetic enough to give him his job back but not sympathetic enough to wipe out the several thousand Euros’ worth of company stock he “donated prior to official permission” to the orphanage, not to mention “borrowing” the company van for several months, and he’ll probably still be paying off the debt when Italia starts school. 

At the end of August, though, he finally gets two days off in a row. The first is spent lounging in bed with his laptop on one side of him and Italia snoozing on the other. His Dutch forum contact mentioned teething as an up-and-coming surprise, unnerving Paolo enough to brave another internet search, all too aware of how little he knows about babies and the raising of them. He makes notes in an old journal he found stuffed in a shoe box, both the journal and the box a remnant of Mario, left behind in his wake. 

It’s a battle to fight off the anxiety crawling through his guts. The more he reads, the more he clocks the things he isn’t doing for Italia. Tummy time. Exposure to other babies. _Vaccinations_. His to-do list bleeds on to the next page. 

But then there are the counter-argument sites saying it is tantamount to child abuse if he uses disposable diapers or pacifiers … or _vaccinations_. 

And all of that is complicated when, feeling utterly stupid, he realises that while Italia is technically four months old, he should really be looking at things for _three_ month old babies, since she was four weeks premature. 

Running his hands through his hair, he opens up the single fathers forum, clicking on his direct messages out of habit at this point. _I feel like I’m losing my mind. Everything I read conflicts with something else. How do I know what’s right for my daughter?_

Paolo doesn’t get a reply from _cheesesticks_ until late that night when he’s sat at the kitchen table, Italia cradled in one arm sleepily suckling a warm bottle. The nocturnal crying has begun to taper off since they went to the doctor. With any luck, she will sleep through from midnight until about six. Some websites have said that’s feasible, while others an impossible dream. 

_Medically, trust your doctor. Try different suggestions from people and see how she responds_ , says the response. _But trust your instincts too. If it doesn’t seem right, then it probably isn’t. Don’t be afraid to stand up to people. Say no. Even to your ex, if she’s being insensitive and short-sighted._

Paolo frowns at the message, at the current of frustration plainly visible, and runs it through Google translate to be sure he has understood it properly. He itches to reach out, offer some commiseration - God knows Paolo has his own troubled history of exes - but worries if that’s overstepping. 

Besides, Italia’s eyes have shut. Time for bed. He’s nervously excited for the possibility of six straight hours. He closes his laptop and retires for the night. 

In the end, they both manage five hours straight before Italia has had enough. 

Paolo rolls out of bed that morning feeling better than he has in weeks, in part because of the decent stretch of sleep and in part because it’s a _second_ consecutive day of _no work_. The novelty of it is invigorating. 

He puts on the radio while he rushes through his shower, then comes out with a towel wrapped around his waist when Italia starts mewling like she’s going to cry again, her little face all scrunched up and red. Scooping her up from her Moses basket, he dances her around the room, singing along with the pop song playing until she pulls back from the brink. 

“Hush, little miracle,” he soothes, bopping his hips. “Hush now. It’s not as bad as you think.” She snuffles and grumbles into his neck, little feet kicking his ribs, as he warms up a bottle of milk for her with the kind of ease that strikes him, suddenly: 

Four months ago he was a new father and completely clueless. 

Now he is a new father and only mostly clueless. 

That’s progress. 

Rummaging through his cupboards for his own breakfast underscores just how little time he has had between Italia and work for literally anything else, including but not limited to groceries. He makes do with a coffee and the last stale bread roll from the bakery he passes on the way home. There’s nothing else. He’s even out of pasta. 

“I think we need to go shopping,” Paolo tells Italia, who is watching him from her basket. He feels a bit ridiculous talking to her like he should expect an answer, but several websites said it’s important to expose babies to language so he needs to make the effort. 

Italia gurgles at him and waves her fists. That’s a reply of some kind, anyway. 

Mrs Brambilla catches him heading out the door with Italia strapped to his front, a diaper bag slung sideways banging into his hip, and his rucksack hanging empty on his back. “Oh, there’s my little angel,” she coos at Italia, who squeals, flailing her limbs, gummy smile brightening her face. “Tell your papa to buy me new potatoes and some feta if he wants to eat tonight.” 

“Yes, of course,” Paolo says. 

“I wasn’t talking to you!” Mrs Brambilla looks up at him from under her bushy eyebrows and laughs. “Eavesdropping on a private conversation.” She tsks. Italia yowls again. “That’s right, you tell him off,” Mrs Brambilla says, patting Italia’s soft brown hair. “About time you had a girl in your life,” she says to Paolo, who scuffs the back of his head. 

He’s saved by Mr Brambilla bellowing something indiscernible from inside the flat. Mrs Brambilla turns, muttering imprecations under her breath, and vanishes back inside. 

Paolo escapes while he can. 

It’s the first time they’ve both been out together that isn’t for a scheduled doctor’s appointment squeezed between work and sleep, so Paolo takes a slow pace with his head thrown back to enjoy the summer sunshine. He points out birds and cars and flowers to Italia but she seems much more interested in staring at him with her big blue eyes, reaching up to grab at his lips with new dexterity, smiling when he mouths at her fingers. 

Maybe it’s just all the sleep he’s been getting these past few days - comparatively speaking, anyway - but Paolo can’t remember the last time he felt so good. 

He’s starting to sweat under the many straps criss-crossing his body by the time he reaches the supermarket and its blessedly cool interior, and it’s a relief to dump his rucksack and the diaper bag in a shopping cart. Grocery list scrawled in Biro on the back of his hand, Paolo heads for the fresh produce for Mrs Brambilla’s order. 

“Which one is better?” he asks Italia, holding up two new potatoes for her to see. Italia bats at one with her fist and sends it flying. “No good I see,” says Paolo. “Very wise.” He drops the other in a bag before Italia can grab for it too and quickly adds a couple dozen more. Italia receives a kiss to the forehead for her excellent judgement. 

“Paolo?” 

His heart leaps into his throat at the achingly familiar voice even as ice water chills him from head to toe. There’s a horror-movie inevitability as he turns slowly on the spot, leaning back on the shopping cart for support, and comes face to face with not just Mario but _Valerio_ too. 

Paolo swallows thickly. “Hi.” 

Valerio is looking at him, but Mario’s attention is riveted on Italia affixed to Paolo’s chest. 

“Hello,” Valerio says stiffly, flick of his eyes taking in Paolo’s whole look: scruffy jeans and ancient sneakers, sweat-damp shirt stained in patterns of baby drool and worse. Valerio’s upper lip curls like he has stepped in something unpleasant. “Nice to see you again.” 

Paolo is very conscious of the fact that the last time Valerio saw him, he hauled Mario away, grabbed him by the shirt collar and kissed him. 

For a moment, the old shame rises up like some deadly deep sea creature ready to devour him. His attitude, his failures, they drove Mario into Valerio’s arms; they ruined the only proper relationship he’s ever had, all because of his fear and doubt. Valerio’s judgement feels absolutely righteous. 

Then Italia bats his chin and the spell is broken. Paolo takes her little fist in his own and shakes it, smiling at her. She stares up at him, enraptured. 

“Paolo.” Mario’s voice is choked. He looks from Italia to Paolo and back, as if it’s too difficult to keep his eyes off her for long. “Is that her?” 

Scuffing his hair, Paolo ducks his head. “Yeah,” he murmurs. 

“Where’s her mother?” Mario gestures at the surrounding aisle. 

Paolo’s lips pinch. “She left. She’s gone.” 

“Oh,” says Mario. He’s staring at Italia, a naked yearning in his eyes that used to scare Paolo. The look he sends Paolo is beseeching. “Can I see her?” 

Heart thudding hard in his chest, Paolo nods, turning side-on as Mario approaches so he can get a clear view. Italia notices the stranger and stares, unfocused yet rapt. 

“Oh my God,” Mario whispers, hand physically _shaking_ as it cups the back of Italia’s head. It’s the closest they’ve been since Mario dropped Paolo off after their 1300km return drive from Calabria. “Oh my God, Paolo.” His breath comes ragged and warm in the narrow space between them. “How did -? What did you -? Why -?” There are tears in his eyes. Without thinking, Paolo rests his forehead against Mario’s, a well-worn mode of comfort as familiar as a kiss. 

“Babe,” Valerio says. 

Mario straightens up with a start, his dark wet eyes wide and aching when they meet Paolo’s. “Take care,” he chokes out before he tears himself away. Paolo’s chest aches watching him leave. 

Without stepping any closer, Valerio stretches out his arm. In his hand is the rejected potato. Paolo takes it from him and gives it to Italia. Predictably, she shakes it too much for her grip strength and it flies out of her hand. 

Valerio spins on his heel and stalks off. 

After that encounter, the whole store feels like any step could trigger a landmine. Paolo peeks around the corner of every aisle braced for the sight of Mario and Valerio holding hands or hugging or something. By the time he gets to the bakery section, he’s exhausted and strung out. Italia picks up on his mood and starts grizzling, at which point Paolo gives it up for a lost cause, grabs the nearest available baguette, and heads to the checkout. 

“What a cutie!” coos the cashier. Spit dribbling from her chin all over Paolo’s shirt, ‘cutie’ is not the word he would immediately summon to describe Italia. As she gets more and more grumpy, Paolo frantically packs his rucksack until it is bursting at the seams. Mrs Brambilla’s potatoes and feta he stuffs in the diaper bag, which means he still has his hands free, a small success in this clusterfuck of a grocery trip. 

Outside, the full heat of the day has settled into the bones of the city, radiating up from the sidewalk and sideways from the buildings. Sweat springs up across Paolo’s body under his heavy loads and the August sun. Perversely, Italia settles down now that they’re out of the store. Her head droops against Paolo’s collarbones as he slows his walk so she isn’t bounced and jolted all over. It’s difficult to move fast anyway, waddling lopsided with the heavy diaper bag pulling to the right and his stuffed rucksack dragging at his shoulders. 

Jittery in his legs and the ends of his fingers, mouth dry from more than just the heat, he feels shaken and sick to his belly. Phone in hand, he stares at the screen. God, if only he could call someone. It used to be Mario he turned to in difficulties. Now Mario _is_ the difficulties. 

With a sharp pang, he misses Mia like someone carved out his spleen. 

He has nobody. This is why he reached out online in the first place: there is literally no one else in Paolo’s life he can just talk to. Even Mrs Brambilla, God love her, isn’t someone he can turn to with all this shit. 

Sighing harshly, Paolo pulls up his email on his phone in an attempt to distract himself from the whirlpool spiralling around in his head. There’s an unexpected notification from the single fathers forum. 

_Hey, sorry about the tone of my last message_ , it reads. _I’m dealing with some crap with my ex. Didn’t mean to bring it into this chat. You said you were reading conflicting stuff online. Can you be more specific? What are you worried about?_

Paolo’s jaw unclenches. He can feel his blood pressure drop by the way his throat loosens, and the sounds of traffic filter back into his hearing. Against his chest, Italia wriggles in her sleep. Paolo’s t-shirt is soaked in sweat where her body is heating his. He kisses the crown of her head. 

_I just ran into my ex_ , Paolo types, slowing to a crawl on the sidewalk as he thinks through the English; he keeps the sentences simple since he can’t be bothered to switch out to the translator. _Our relationship was complicated. He didn’t expect me to have a baby. It was very uncomfortable so I understand how you feel, I think. My daughter is sleeping now. I think she is okay._

He hits send, shifts the strap cutting into his shoulder, wipes a palm across his sweaty forehead. Checks Italia is still sleeping. Starts off again feeling ever so slightly lighter.


	4. October 2017

Standing on the roof of the store next to the big billboard with its big advert for the new family housing on the outskirts of Turin, the yellow faded and rain-washed after so many months, Paolo puffs his cheeky cigarette - he’s trying to cut down, and he never smokes at home now that he’s researched what it does to little lungs - and shivers as the cooling wind tickles across the back of his neck. Nights are drawing in, and Paolo’s shifts are just as erratic as they have been ever since he came back from what Assunta has termed his “mid-life madness”.

Never mind that he’s only 29.

He’s at the tail end of a double today, something that he tries to avoid even with all the extra shifts he has to do to pay back his debt. He doesn’t like to overburden Mrs Brambilla. She never says it’s a problem, but he was raised by nuns: guilt is his guiding star.

There’s another double shift on his timesheet tomorrow, too, though he’s hoping to cut a deal with Federico. It will mean coming in on Saturday - so far, Paolo’s only day off for the past two weeks - but he will be able to put his daughter down to sleep in her own house for the first time since last Friday.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket, the peculiar 1-2-2-1 rhythm he set for his email. A quick glance at his watch shows he has just a few minutes left of his smoke break. Enough time to dig his phone out and flick to his emails, stomach a little squirmy with hope.

For two months now he’s had nearly daily messages from the Netherlands father - whose username is _cheesesticks_ , about which Paolo has questions he hasn’t asked yet - and they’ve developed what Paolo is tentatively calling a friendship. Distant, and text-based, and focused almost entirely on Italia’s growth and development. But Paolo _has_ learnt _some_ things about his Dutch acquaintance, who has a daughter aged about ten, and an ex with whom he has a complicated relationship, and some kind of business he runs solo.

Paolo knows more idiosyncratic details too. In the single fathers’ forum, _cheesesticks_ has a little user icon of Luke Skywalker wielding a baguette instead of a lightsaber. He used to get his daughter to sleep when she was a baby by rocking her in his arms while he sang English-language ballads from the 1980s (top recommendations rated for effectiveness are _Eternal Flame_ by The Bangles and _True Colours_ by Cyndi Lauper). His favourite book is _Lord of the Rings_ , and he used to have a beautifully bound Dutch hardback copy given to him as a wedding present by his sister - before his daughter, crawling and drooling and _teething_ , decided to relieve the pressure of her gums using the _book_ instead of her toys.

 _The moral of the story,_ he had written, _is keep your favourite things WAAAY out of reach!_

It’s been a few days since Paolo last heard from him, and he’s hopeful, but it’s quickly dashed when he sees the subject header. An email from his English instructor from the online course Paolo is foolishly undertaking, eyes on some hazy future where he can provide Italia with everything her little heart desires.

Chewing the inside of his lip, Paolo debates just - not looking. Putting his phone away. He has another four hours before he can clock off. That is potentially four hours of blissful ignorance.

Or four hours of stewing with worry.

Sighing, he opens the email. Skims it. Closes it. Stuffs his phone back in his pocket. Shuts his eyes against the darkening sky and takes a long, long drag of his cigarette, then stamps it out under his boot and goes back to his job.

It goes fine like this.

“Paolo!” Assunta calls as he’s shutting the fire exit behind him. He looks up, guarded. She gestures him into her office.

Sloping in behind her, he stands with his hands in his pockets, trying not to look as exhausted as he feels. “Yeah?”

She folds her arms and sits on the edge of her desk. Paolo’s stomach twists unpleasantly, a fish on the hook that knows disembowelment is next on the agenda.

“There’s a new store opening in Vercelli,” Assunta says. “They want me as General Manager.”

A pit yawns dark and hungry beneath Paolo’s feet. He doesn’t know why she’s telling him, alone in the office, but it can’t be for any good reason. “Wow. Congratulations.”

Assunta rolls her eyes. “Sure. The question is: What are we going to do about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you!” Her finger jabs hard into his collarbone. “The only moron in this store who somehow owes €15,000!”

Paolo swallows down his rising gorge. He clears his throat. “Look, Assunta -”

She waves her hand. “Don’t, Paolo. I’ve heard it already.” Sighing, she rubs at her forehead, staring blankly at the floor.

“I could take out a loan?” Paolo offers. He could try, at least, though he doubts his credit is good enough to cover his entire debt.

“You already have a loan for that course you’re doing.” At Paolo’s stunned look, Assunta scoffs. “I heard you talking to Federico about it. Architecture, right?”

Paolo shrugs a shoulder. He really doesn’t want to think about it right now. “I can just drop out. There’s still time before I would lose all the fees.”

“God, Paolo,” Assunta groans, “don’t be stupid. You’re a father now. You have to do what’s right for the kid.”

It’s the first time Assunta has ever acknowledged the existence of Italia. Paolo almost topples off balance with the shock.

“Think, Paolo! Why have I brought you in here?”

Exasperation bubbles up from his gut. “Well, what do you want from me then?” He gestures expansively at the store through the office windows. “I already work every hour God sends! Should I sell a kidney? Maybe I can give up my apartment and live on the roof here instead? Not the best environment for a baby but if that’s what it takes!” By the end he’s almost shouting.

Assunta stares at him.

Breath by laboured breath, Paolo winds himself back in, shoulders rounding in as his blood pressure drops from its stratospheric heights.

“Sorry,” he whispers to her shoes. Like a lake in drought, the last of his energy is all but a muddy puddle at the bottom of the bed.

“Paolo.” Assunta raises a hand and, when he doesn’t move, rests it on his arm. “I want you to come to the new store with me.”

Paolo’s brain does not compute.

He lifts his head, blinks at her. “What?”

Assunta smiles, the gentlest she’s ever been with him. “It’s still under construction. We’re opening next March. I want you to come work there with me.”

“Me?”

Her eyes gleam. “Yes.” She pokes his chest, softly this time. “You.”

“I don’t understand. What about the money?”

“Eh,” Assunta says with a shrug. “You let me sort that out.”

“What, I’ll be working eighty hours at the new place instead?”

Assunta rolls her eyes again, shoving his shoulder with the heel of her hand. “Moron. I’m talking about a clean slate. Start afresh.”

“I -” Words fail him. He’s so tired, still spiralling down from his outburst, his thoughts are just a whirlwind. He’s come a long way since he was that silent orphan, but the oldest habits are hard to break.

Frowning, Assunta peers up at him. “Paolo? You okay?”

It takes deep breaths and determination to force his words to come. “Can I decide later? I can’t - think. Right now.”

“Sure.” Assunta’s mouth thins. “You’re exhausted. Go home early, and skip tomorrow.”

“But -”

“Paolo, for once in your life, accept a damn favour.” She pushes him towards the door. “Go. You have a daughter who would like to see you.”

On the bus home, in a journey that he performs on autopilot now that he has made it at every conceivable time of day, Paolo pulls out his phone. His email is still open with the message from his English instructor:

 _Your writing skills are adequate,_ she writes, _but you need much more spoken practice if you have any hope of moving to the next level._

Sure. He’ll just ask one of his dozens of English-speaking friends for help. Or use some of his endless free time to force himself to watch pirated American films with shitty subtitles.

Yawning, he rests his head against the cold glass. His gut churns.

Though it’s dark, he gets back to his apartment block in time to catch the lingering scent of Mrs Brambilla’s home cooking. Mr Brambilla greets him at the door with a grunt around his pipe and lets him inside.

“Oh Paolo! You’re early, and just in time!” Mrs Brambilla beams up at him from her position kneeling on a cushion on the floor, Italia flopped on her back in front of her. “Get your phone out, quick!”

“What -?” But Paolo can see immediately, and scrambles to activate the camera on his phone, pointing it at Italia as she wriggles and heaves, head lifted and legs flailing, determination written in every frown line on her face.

“Go on, precious,” Mrs Brambilla coos. “You can do it.”

Italia squawks and squeals. Paolo checks that his camera is recording as she wrestles with gravity, levers herself up and then, suddenly, rolls onto her belly with a flop.

Mrs Brambilla claps her hand. “Clever girl!” She beams at Paolo. “Did you film it?”

“Yes.” He’s somehow breathless, more than Italia even. She’s growing faster than he can keep track, faster than he can watch when he’s away working so much. He almost missed this. What else might he miss in the future?

Creaking and groaning, Mrs Brambilla climbs laboriously to her knees, then accepts Paolo’s hand with a wink and a grin as he steadies her onto her feet. “Such a gentleman, unlike _some_ ,” she says, with a look at her husband. He harrumphs and hides behind his large-print book. Mrs Brambilla tsks. “Come on, Paolo. There’s lasagna left over for you to take with you.”

Upstairs, Paolo balances Italia on his hip while he slides the, frankly, huge slice of lasagna in the microwave. While it reheats, he fills the sink with warm water, strips Italia and plops her in for a happy little bath. She’s not quite ready to sit up yet but he thinks it won’t be long, no matter that she was a month premature, and it doesn’t stop her from splashing her arms and making a sopping mess of Paolo’s t-shirt.

When she’s dried and dressed, Paolo leaves her on the play mat with the overhanging selection of bright, noisy toys for her to hit with her clumsy fists. He eats the lasagna too fast straight out of the plastic box, knows he’ll pay for it later with indigestion, but he wants to be down on the ground with his daughter. These days are precious and far too few.

Paolo fights his heavy eyelids, forcing himself to stay awake until gone 10PM, when he feeds Italia her final bottle and puts her down to sleep in her Moses basket, propped up with pillows next to him in the bed. As has become his habit, he stays up just that little bit later, keeping watch over her in case she decides to undo all her sleeping progress. He scrolls his phone so his eyes have got something to do other than close, watches the video he took of her rolling over, then watches it again, and again, her little face so fiercely determined, her body straining to obey her wishes.

God, he wants to show this to someone. He’s just so full of emotion, so overwhelmed and scared and _proud_.

He presses the button to share and flicks through his contacts. Who does he even know that would care?

Mrs Brambilla was there to witness it first hand, and doesn’t have a phone from the last decade anyway.

Assunta? No. She only acknowledged Italia’s existence for the first time this evening.

Federico is just a colleague, and a young one at that, barely out of school, with more pimples than hair in what he calls his goatee.

Paolo hovers for a long time on Mario’s name. Remembers the look in his eyes at the grocery store. Can well imagine his voice answering Paolo’s call. For a moment he pictures it, imagines calling Mario, sharing the video, maybe inviting him over to see it for himself. He aches with want for the lifestyle that Mario tried to coach him into, that Paolo couldn’t see was there for the taking.

Unbidden, in his mind’s eye he sees himself inviting Mario over, sees him walk through the door with Valerio at his back; cool, calm, collected Valerio, who would never stalk his ex to a club, hoist him up by his collar while growling insults into his face, then force a kiss onto him that tastes like despair.

The yearning clots in Paolo’s throat like blood.

His phone buzzes, 1-2-2-1, and he taps the notification without looking. When his email opens, the smile takes him by surprise: It’s _cheesesticks_ , finally.

 _Sorry it’s been a couple days since I checked in,_ he writes. _Things have been kind of busy at work, and I’m still looking for a new place for me and the daughter. She’s doing better now. Thanks for asking. I think being at school helps. Routine is good for kids. The more routine you can give them, the better. Anyway, how are you doing? Did you get your updated vaccination schedule?_

Paolo labours over every word, trying to make sense of new vocabulary in context without resorting to Google Translate, conscious of his English instructor like a ghost over his shoulder. When he thinks he’s understood it all, he double-checks using the translator, and is quietly pleased with his level of comprehension. That’s something, at least.

_I got my new schedule, yes. Today Italia rolled over for the first time. I filmed it, but I have no one to show it to._

In her basket, Italia whimpers in her sleep. Paolo shushes her, rubbing his hand over her belly until she settles.

His phone buzzes again.

 _Send it to me,_ says the newest message, with a Dutch +31 country code number at the end.

* * *

Daan doesn’t know who the old lady is kneeling on the pillow, but the little girl struggling valiantly onto her belly is probably the second cutest baby Daan has ever seen - after Saar, of course. He watches the footage twice before he realises it must be Paolo’s voice he can hear at the end of the video, a quiet “Sì” followed by a string of Italian too quick for Daan to follow, cut off mid-sentence when the recording ends.

 _Wow, she was very determined!_ he writes, self-conscious that it’s an inane statement but unable to think of anything better. _You must be very proud. I know I was. She’ll be crawling soon. Brace yourself!_

On the bed, Saar rolls over, eyes cracking open to squint in Daan’s lamplight. “Papa?”

Daan drops his phone on the nightstand. “Hey, sweetheart. Did I wake you?”

Saar buries her face in the pillow. “So bright,” she complains, muffled too much to really understand, but Daan knows and is already hitting the switch. He lifts the edge of the blankets and slides in, tucking an arm around Saar when she snuggles into his side. He kisses the crown of her head. “Go back to sleep, darling,” he murmurs.

Stroking her hair normally works, but tonight she is more restless than usual. She went to bed late, tossed and turned for a long time after, and now lays awake, fingers plucking at the frayed neckline of Daan’s t-shirt.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Daan whispers.

Little shake of her head half-buried in his armpit. Saar pulls her arms in, crosses them over her chest, presses her face into his ribs where he can’t see her expression.

There’s a lot going on in her mind these days, and only a fraction of it is ever shared.

Eventually the tension ebbs from her frame as sleep reclaims her. Daan, as has become his standard these past couple months, spends most of the night staring at the ceiling, dropping off just as dawn begins to lighten the sky, waking a few short hours later when Saar’s alarm trills on her nightstand. They both crawl out of bed with messed hair and dark smudges under their eyes, sharing the sink silently as they brush their teeth.

The street door bell rings when Daan is halfway through making Saar’s lunch. Saar doesn’t look up from doing her shoelaces.

“Mama’s here,” Daan announces, like the bell wasn’t enough. He slides a bar of chocolate into the bottom of Saar’s lunch bag, hidden under a couple of ham sandwiches and wrapped inside a paper napkin like a Christmas present.

Saar doesn’t respond, doesn’t look up at Daan watching her from the kitchenette, takes her time tying a perfect bow on each shoe.

The bell rings again.

Biting his lip, Daan adds a juice pack before he zips the bag shut, holding it out for Saar by the handle. “Lunch,” he says quietly.

Saar hops to her feet and throws her arms around Daan’s middle. She’s in the midst of a growth-spurt; the top of her head is easily level with his sternum as she presses her face into his t-shirt. “Thanks papa,” she mutters against his belly.

Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, Daan almost asks if she wants to skip school. They can hole up in the apartment watching crappy superhero movies, maybe make some chocolate chip cookies - the really soft kind she likes, the ones that are more butter than flour.

But no. That would be irresponsible. It would set a bad precedent. And anyway, Daan has a business meeting with his financial adviser slash ex father-in-law.

Tapping Saar’s back with her lunch bag, Daan says, “Come on. Time to go,” just as the door bell rings a third time.

Saar detaches with a small sigh and takes her lunch from his grip. “Thanks papa.” He helps her shrug on her jacket at the door and she’s halfway down the stairs before he can blink.

“Bye then,” he murmurs.

He hurries to the window, catches Inge checking her gold wristwatch, a hand resting on the very small swell of her belly. Nearly four months pregnant, she hardly shows at all - less even than she did with Saar, Daan thinks.

The door swings open and Saar pops out onto the street. Daan can’t quite hear what they say but there’s a warm hug and a kiss hello, and Saar still holds Inge’s hand as they set off down the road for school. No sign of the mercurial mood from breakfast. It only worries Daan more.

There’s no time to stew on it, though. Today, like most mornings, he has scheduled himself for the opening shift in the deli, partly to make sure it’s set up the way he likes, and partly because he employs university students; relying on them to crawl out of bed consistently every morning is a gamble with poor odds.

Between eight and ten, he does a brisk trade in breakfast rolls and fruit smoothies, and directs at least five customers down to Jacob and Rein for their coffee fix. It was something Katje couldn’t understand, a low level source of friction between her business cunning and Daan’s loyalty to his neighbours: yes, he explained frequently, he could make a lot of money selling coffee, but at what cost to his friendships and to the community on Hartenstraat?

Levi turns up ten minutes late, as usual, hurrying through the door bleary-eyed and unshaven. “Sorry, sorry!” he shouts, as usual, dashing behind the counter to the little storeroom at the back. Daan hasn’t been greeted with “Hello” since he hired the kid, but once Levi is in his apron with a hairnet over his bushy hair, he jumps right into the fray just as the lunch rush starts, flipping between English, French, Dutch, German and - for Mrs Heertje - Hebrew as needed, which is exactly why Daan hired him even though Levi, in a moment of brutal honesty during the interview, promised as a fact that he would never, ever be on time.

At two, with customers tapering off into the afternoon slump, Levi leans his hip against the counter with an energy drink dangling from his skinny hand and says, less manic than this morning, “Did you go see that apartment?”

Daan, restocking the Moroccan couscous, makes a vague noise of confirmation.

Levi waits for more detail, then knocks his boot into Daan’s heel. “Well? What did you think?”

Sighing, Daan extracts himself from the display case and kicks Levi’s foot back, though Levi just grins at him, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“It’s nice,” Daan says, shrugging vaguely. “Bigger than upstairs. Newer.”

Levi rolls his eyes. “Could you be a little less excited please?”

Daan snorts. “It’s the best apartment I’ve ever seen!” he says with hugely exaggerated cheer. “How can I ever thank you for finding me my perfect home?”

“Okay, okay, that’s just creepy,” Levi says, laughing. “But seriously, what’s not to love? It’s by some good schools for Saar, it’s right next to your new store - you’re welcome for that one too, by the way - so what am I missing?”

Daan watches him slurp another mouthful of that gut-rotting energy concoction and is baffled to think that, at the same age, Daan was a new father, dropping out of college and scrambling for a job that would keep him and Inge afloat beyond her student loans and generous parents.

This deli is where Daan became the man he is: business owner, employer, father. This street is where he made his first adulthood friends, who have all helped bring up Saar in their own way. The studio apartment above is where Saar grew up, where she and Daan became the family unit they are today. He’s lived more of his life in this building than anywhere else in the world.

“It’s just difficult,” Daan says, unable to put it all into words.

Levi nods sagely, but Daan knows he can’t really understand something that only time and experience can teach.

An hour later, Rifka clocks on to relieve Daan, smiling sunnily as she hands over coffee to both men. “Oh hey,” she says, as Daan is shrugging on his jacket for the cool autumn wind whipping up outside, “did you go see that apartment? It’s a nice area, right?”

“Don’t ask him,” Levi tells her, _sotto voce_. “He’s got angst about it.”

“Ha ha,” Daan says. “Be good, don’t break anything. I’ll see you in a couple hours.”

“Good luck!” they chorus.

Luck is definitely what he will need.

It’s a brisk trek to the subway station, a short ride south, and then another leg before he reaches Zuidas financial district and the office of Inge’s father, Kees. While the rest of the Amsterdam skyline is overall very low, here the buildings stretch long and glassy to the sky above. It has a vastly different feel to the historic centre where Daan has lived these past ten years. If he kept walking another few minutes south, he would come to his new business venture - and the empty apartment he saw yesterday, the most promising candidate for his and Saar’s new home.

Every year, Daan has to face the gauntlet of his own nerves in entering the imposing bank with its cold granite floors and alarming array of stern receptionists guarding the elevators. “Hi,” he says to one whose tag reads ‘Pepijn’. “I have an appointment to see Kees Sloot.”

“Name?” drawls Pepijn in a bored tone.

“Daan Zouari.”

A few desultory taps of the keyboard later, Daan is waved through. He steps into the elevator in his jeans and loafers, stands next to three business people in razor sharp suits, and tries to brew up some level of confidence. This is his fourth meeting with Kees this month, and each time has felt exactly like this.

On the twelfth floor, Kees’ personal secretary ushers him through after a perfunctory greeting, and then he is in Kees’ large modern office, all chrome and glass, and Kees is looking up with the frowning expression Daan is far too used to seeing.

“Welcome back,” Kees says, shaking Daan’s hand and gesturing to the chair opposite. “Did you see the apartment?”

Daan suppresses a sigh. “It’s nice: plenty of room for Saar, in a good area, close to the new store, near some excellent schools, and there’s the university right there too.”

“Wonderful. That’s that sorted then,” Kees says with an authoritative nod. “It’s about time you got a decent place for Saar. I told you, you should have moved years ago when the market was still depressed. You would have got a lot more for your money.”

“I remember.” The peril of having his ex-father-in-law as his business manager is this: constant commentary on every choice Daan makes in his life, whether or not it has any impact on Kees’ granddaughter, never mind Kees himself.

“Hmph. Well, speaking of money.” Pushing his glasses up his nose, Kees turns his computer screen so Daan can look at the spreadsheet laid out. “As you can see, with a bit of work on my end, there’s just enough mortgage to cover the purchase of the new retail unit.” He looks at Daan expectantly.

What should suffuse Daan now is relief that the finances have been approved, or maybe excitement for the next phase of his business expansion. Mostly he just feels dread at the prospect of all the unrelenting work yet to come.

“… Thank you,” he says.

“Hmph.” Kees clicks to a different tab on the spreadsheet. “The problem is, there isn’t enough for the purchase of a new apartment. Not even if you sell the studio. I’ve pushed the numbers every way they can be pushed and there just isn’t anything more to give.” He straightens his glasses again. “You simply don’t have the capital.”

Daan licks his lower lip. “So, what? That’s it? There’s no way at all?” He tries very, very hard to hide the wobble in his voice.

Kees turns the screen back, links his hands together and rests them on the glass desktop, leaning forward to peer intently at Daan. “I’m prepared to make you a deal.”

It takes a moment for comprehension to slam into his head like a falling anvil.

“Oh,” he says, hoarse.

“You proved yourself by repaying my loan to you with the profits from your little deli, despite all my misgivings.”

This is high praise indeed from the man who cursed Daan up, down and sideways after Inge fell pregnant; he almost wants to get his phone out to record it for posterity.

It feels like there’s a noose tightening around his throat, strangling his voice. “You’re offering me another loan?” he all but whispers.

“Yes. For Saar’s sake.”

Daan stares out the big window at wisps of clouds scudding freely across the cool blue sky. “How much?”

“Enough for the apartment.”

“Jesus Christ.” Daan’s breath leaves him in a rush. That is a _lot_ of money - far more than Kees loaned him as a deposit for the deli, and which took Daan six years to pay back with interest.

Kees frowns at him. “Mind your language.”

“Yes sir,” Daan says, too numb to be properly sarcastic. Kees frowns harder at him. Daan tries to shake himself into action. “Can I - Am I allowed to think on it first?”

“Of course,” Kees says in a tone of voice that suggests he was in fact expecting his generous offer to be gratefully accepted there on the spot. “Over the weekend, perhaps?”

All of a sudden, the office feels claustrophobic, like being stuck in a fish bowl: both trapped and terribly, inescapably seen. Daan shunts to his feet, thrusting his hand forward. “Thanks for your time, Kees.”

“You’re welcome.” Kees shakes his hand slowly. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, of course, I’m fine,” Daan says, grimacing a smile. “Just want to be home in time for Saar.”

“Will we be seeing her any time soon?” Kees prods.

Daan clenches his teeth and smiles wider. “You’ll have to ask Inge.”

Walking out of the bank normally triggers a euphoric rush of endorphins at having survived another annual business meeting, but this month every meeting seems to add more weight onto Daan’s shoulders. This time, he stands in the shadow of the tall building, buffeted by the wind, and focuses on breathing past the knot of nerves sitting just above his heart.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Sighing out a shaky breath, Daan slumps back against the glass window behind him, head tilted back like all the strength in his neck is gone. The racing clouds above seem very far away from down here.

What choice does he realistically have? The housing market in Amsterdam is ridiculous. Saar needs a bigger home, somewhere well-positioned and pleasant and _permanent_. Levi’s keen eyes caught sight of the empty retail unit by the free university, fantastically situated to capture lots of foot traffic from hungry students on their way to class: it would be foolish to miss that opportunity, especially if he _does_ take Kees’ offer, which he will have to pay off with market rate interest.

The despair swells like an abscess in his chest, tight and painful and in need of draining. There’s just no one to vent to anymore. Katje is gone. It’s Inge’s father causing this strife. Bas is on his honeymoon world tour with Mara. Aart is living his beautiful retirement with Bep. Everyone on Hartenstraat would be so supportive - Rein and Jacob and Mirjam - but though they’re neighbours and friends, they’re not the kind that share every frustration and heartache, not least because it would spread through the community like wildfire, potentially making its way to Saar’s ears. Daan can’t let that happen. She’s got enough to deal with; her relationship with her grandfather needs to remain strong.

Daan pulls out his phone to check the time and is surprised to see a text message from a +39 number.

**she is enough trouble like this so I think I won’t let her crawl. she will have to stay in her basket**

Oh, it’s Paolo. Daan forgot to save his number last night after Saar woke up.

He opens the text and adds Paolo’s contact now, while he remembers. Then he watches the video of the baby rolling over just to feel something other than sucking misery.

And then he thinks: This is someone who is never going to interact with any other part of Daan’s world. He can say whatever he needs to say to him, and it will be better than keeping a diary in his studio where Saar can stumble upon it. He clicks in the message box.

_**I’m having a crappy day and your video is the only thing that has made me smile.** _

**ok I am here. what’s wrong?**

_**God, I don’t even know where to start. Basically, I have to accept a big debt to my ex-father-in-law or I can’t afford to buy a bigger home for me and my daughter. We currently share a bed because my apartment is so small but she’s getting too old for that now. So I really have no choice if I want to do what’s right for her. And I’m opening a second location of my business, which is even more stress, even though it’s a great opportunity and will work out well in the long run. I know I’m so lucky in a lot of ways but today I am worried and frustrated and angry and everything is just too much.** _

Daan’s eyebrows rise at the sight of the wall of text he just sent. Visually there in front of him, he’s a little stunned at just how _much_ he feels, and he hasn’t even mentioned all the other stuff going on with Inge and Saar.

When Paolo doesn’t message back immediately, Daan slips his phone into his pocket and, chin tucked against the strengthening wind, heads towards the subway station. He tries not to worry about the lack of response. He vented out his emotions. That’s all he wanted. Now he can go home to his daughter and get on with doing what’s right for her.

He can’t deny, though, that the buzz of his phone when he’s on the subway is a small relief.

**that sounds very difficult**

**I don’t know if this will make you feel any better but this is a picture of me**

**in 5 minutes I have to go to work**

The photo takes a second to load, but when it does Daan snorts the laugh, sudden and loud, out his nose. Reflected in a mirror is a man’s torso dressed in a store-branded black polo shirt, covered from neck to hemline in milky spit-up, just his mouth visible, pulled down in an exaggerated grimace.

_**Baby vomit isn’t part of your uniform?** _

**it happens a lot**

**maybe I should ask them to change for me**

Daan can’t help the grin stealing across his face like sunshine through a break in the clouds.


	5. December 2017

“I just don’t understand. This is Amsterdam. Why don’t you have any _traditional_ products?”

There’s something about the holiday season that just brings out the most obnoxious customers. This one, for instance, wrapped up warm in an expensive grey pea coat and a tasteful cashmere scarf, has been arguing in circles for twenty minutes already. He has already proclaimed the deli a failure for not stocking kerststol, kerstkrans, or duivekater.

It has made for an interesting game with Paolo, however. They’ve taken to swapping bad customer stories at the end of a workday. Daan has the dubious honour of most irritating customers in one shift - an entire bus load of British university students who demanded ‘special brownies’ until Levi had to wave down a passing police officer to evict them - but Paolo currently holds the unenviable accolade for worst overall customer experience after two women got into a fight over the last lamp, which smashed to pieces when they crashed into Paolo and knocked him into the display, after which they complained about him to his manager.

He can’t _wait_ to tell Paolo about this one.

The customer looks Daan up and down with scathing judgement. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but in the Netherlands we celebrate Christmas with banketstaff. You should stock it as a matter of principle. People are expecting traditional baked goods! You should give customers what they want, whatever your personal beliefs may be.”

Ah, the ethnicity card. Honestly, Daan’s surprised it took this long. Smiling his biggest, most shit-eating grin, he strains for as much sarcasm as he can muster: “I’ll take that under advisement. Thank you _so much_ for your helpful comments!”

The customer sniffs, lip curling. “I’m never coming here again.”

Daan leans back against the counter, arms folded. “Such a shame,” he says drolly. “How will I go on?”

“I’m going to tell all my friends not to shop here!” The customer puffs out his chest. “You’ll be out of business in a blink!”

Daan nods. “Oh yes, you’re absolutely right.”

The man points an outraged finger at Daan.“I’m a lawyer! You can’t talk to me like that!”

“Like what? I’m agreeing with you.”

The door jingles open as the customer spits venomously, “Are you even _allowed_ to work in this country?”

“Are you being racist to my dad?” Saar’s voice pipes up. When the man turns, Daan can see her standing just behind him, her hands clasped under her chin, eyes wide and teary, mouth drooped in a heartbreaking pout that only works on Daan thirty percent of the time. “Are you going to be racist to me too?”

Inge, holding the door open, rests a hand pointedly on her small-but-definitely-pregnant belly. “You were going to say something to my daughter?” she demands.

“I - I -” Incredulously, the customer shoots pleading eyes at _Daan_ for help.

Daan smiles even wider. “Remember to tell your friends.”

The speed with which the customer leaves is pleasing, though not as much as Saar sticking her tongue out at his retreating back. Daan laughs.

“Come here sweetheart. I need a hug.” He sweeps her into his arms, pressing kisses to the crown of her head until, giggling, she wriggles out of his hold. Shopping in the cold has brought bright colour to her cheeks, but it’s the spark of fun in her eyes that pings Daan’s heart.

The past five months since they told Saar about the baby have been long and gruelling, filled with silences and silent tears. He thinks, finally, Saar has turned a corner and made some peace with it.

“So what did you get me?” he asks, making a grab for the backpack hanging off her shoulders.

Saar skitters out of reach, laughing. “Nothing for you! You had yours already!”

Which is true: this year Pakjesavond came on a Tuesday, and being a school night, it was just Saar and Daan and way too many spiced cookies. Daan is now the proud owner of a new pair of misshapen Yoda slippers and a picture frame Saar made by hand. Saar herself had a mostly modest list for Sinterklaas and received everything on it except the iPhone.

“Okay, okay,” he says. “Go get your stuff before mama leaves without you.”

“Tick tock!” Inge adds.

Saar hurries upstairs to collect the suitcase she and Daan packed together this morning. She used to have an equal division of clothes at Inge’s house, but in November Roderick finally took a day off work to get the nursery sorted, which meant moving _all_ of Saar’s things into Daan’s squashed studio.

That had been a tense week, to say the least.

Daan looks up as Inge approaches. “Did you get - Woah, hey.” Darting around the counter, he steadies her on wobbling feet, her face gone suddenly ashen.

“‘m fine,” she slurs.

“Sure you are. Let’s sit you down.” He guides her to a stool behind the counter where she sits and lists sideways until he braces her against the wall.

“Just a dizzy spell,” she says. “It passes.”

Once Inge’s propped in place, Daan dashes to the fridge and back with a carton of orange juice. “You’ve had more of these? How many? How often?”

Inge takes the juice with a trembling hand. “A couple of weeks.” She sucks down a mouthful through the straw. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”

Daan’s mouth pinches flat. “Have you spoken to your doctor?”

“I’m going on the 27th.”

“Inge -”

She slurps the juice noisily to shut him up. Already her colour is coming back, eyes less glassy than they were half a minute ago, but Daan was married to this woman: he is not so easily dissuaded.

“You should go today,” he says.

“But the appointment is after Christmas.”

“And what if there’s something wrong?”

Inge tuts. “A few days isn’t going to have much of an impact.” She gulps the last of the juice. Daan holds out his hand for the empty carton. “Anyway, I have a last minute client meeting this evening. I can’t miss it.”

Turning, Daan walks all the way to the trashcan to throw the box away, even though he can and has made the shot a thousand times before. Giving himself space from Inge allows him to get a handle on the sudden upsurge of anger.

“Your job isn’t as important as your baby,” he says in the most moderate tone he can manage.

“I’m not interested in having this fight again.” Inge wobbles to her feet, one hand on the wall for support, and looks Daan in the eye. “I’m sorry I worried you, but I really am fine. It’s probably just low blood sugar or something. I’ll message you from the doctor’s to prove everything is okay.”

Saar’s suitcase bashes down the stairs one monumental thump at a time. Daan takes a breath and consciously lets go his frustration on the exhale. As ever, Inge will do what Inge will do. Usually he admires that uncompromising drive; it saw her stand up to her parents’ pressure to abort Saar, to not marry Daan, to reduce her course load. It enabled her to thrive at university despite pregnancy and motherhood.

Usually, though, she isn’t nearly passing out in his deli.

“Hey sweetheart,” Inge calls as Saar reappears dragging her suitcase behind her like a recalcitrant dog.

“The wheel on this is busted!”

“I can’t imagine how that happened,” Daan says, dry as bone. “You carried it down the stairs so carefully.”

Saar sticks her tongue out, which means Daan has to retaliate by pushing his nose up with his finger, which means Saar has to retaliate by dragging her cheeks down so her eyes appear all white, which means Daan has to -

“Alright, enough, you two.” Inge steps between them, hands held up like a referee at a boxing match. She raises an eyebrow at Daan. “What have you been teaching her?”

Daan smirks. “Honourable combat.” He bows to Saar. “I concede, milady.”

Saar pumps her fist with a, “Yessssss.”

Rolling her eyes, Inge shoos Saar. “Alright, say goodbye to papa.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice. Dropping her suitcase flat to the floor, Saar launches herself at Daan, who catches her in his arms and hoists her up so she can wrap all four limbs around him like a koala, face buried against his neck.

“I’ll miss you,” she mumbles.

A lump forms in Daan’s throat. “Miss me? It’s only for three nights!” But he holds her tighter, rubbing her back, and knows he is going to be utterly miserable all the time she is gone.

Inge gives them a good long minute before she checks her watch and winces. Daan catches her eye over the top of Saar’s head. With a final squeeze, he lowers Saar to her feet, cups her cheeks in his hands and presses a warm kiss to her forehead.

“You can call me any time,” he says.

Saar tries on a watery grin. “But you didn’t get me an iPhone.”

Narrowing his eyes, Daan tweaks her nose. “Cheeky. Go on, get out of here. I know for a fact Sinterklaas left a mountain of presents for you at mama’s house.”

One final hug, and then Daan is watching them walk out the door, Saar fighting the stuck wheel on her suitcase, Inge seemingly no worse for wear after her little episode. There’s a lot of family for them to pack into only three days: an afternoon with Inge’s parents, an afternoon with Roderick’s, as well as time with just three of them. Saar will be too busy to miss her father.

For Daan, it’s three interminable days until he gets to bring Saar home again.

He swallows hard, looking around for a distraction. Spots his phone on the counter and remembers the _delightful_ customer that Saar chased out with the world’s most powerful pout.

_**Today’s candidate for worst customer mistook the deli for a bakery.**_

_**Couldn’t understand why I don’t sell Christmas cookies and cakes.**_

_**He decided it must be because I don’t look Dutch enough.**_

Three old ladies come in for potato salad and tubs of hummus before Paolo replies, which keeps Daan busy. It being the last Saturday before Christmas, Hartenstraat is pretty crowded with shoppers looking for gifts. The deli does a brisk trade at mealtimes, but after the old ladies depart, it falls quiet again. If the business was somewhere more residential he might get customers picking up last minute stuff for their Christmas feasts, but this is Hartenstraat: tourist central. No one is looking to offer sliced beef as a Christmas present, and it’s too cold for smoothies and shakes.

His phone buzzes repeatedly in his pocket and he hurries to thumb the messages open.

**for me today, someone wanted a xmas tree**

**this is a furniture store**

**no trees**

**also I made a stain on my shirt**

**it won’t go away**

**but there is no spare shirt here**

_**How bad is the stain?**_

Paolo sends a photo in reply: his reflection in a mirror once more, this time in a stark staff bathroom with cold breeze block walls and grime around the faucet. One big hand is holding the phone; the other is pulling his shirt taut to better show the splatter of pale grey bleach stains across the black material. His mouth is turned down in a grumpy moue.

_**You don’t have much luck with your uniform do you?**_

**no**

Daan sniggers to himself, saving the photo with the first one, and the video of Paolo’s daughter. It’s his Pick Me Up folder: three little glimpses into someone’s world, to remind him that his own problems are no better or worse than anyone else’s.

And that a virtual stranger cared enough about his mood to try to cheer him up.

* * *

The staffroom is always cold, even in summer, but in the depths of December it is absolutely freezing. Paolo shivers in his damp shirt, sharp scent of bleach wafting up his nose every time he moves. He's spent the whole afternoon tidying the stock warehouse, the offices, even the garbage areas out back and the roof where everyone goes for a smoke. Cleaning the staffroom is his last job of the day before he can go home, but it’s the worst task in the whole store because no one ever does it properly, so the filth builds up and up. But Assunta wants it spotless before the new manager comes in January for his transition period prior to Assunta's transfer to Vercelli, and Paolo drew the short straw. So.

On his knees, he scrubs at all manner of unholy stains behind the trash can: red splashes of pasta sauce, brown lines of cola, fireworks of pesto green. A lot of it seems new, which honestly doesn’t surprise him. He’s not exactly popular with his colleagues after the stunt he pulled, putting the whole store in debt, which impacted the end of year bonus, and then being given his job back after. A few people have gone to some lengths to make life difficult for him since his return, like not putting enough change in his till or messing up a display he spent an hour constructing. Immature shit, but it does sap his strength day after day.

Focused on his task, he doesn’t notice footsteps until the door is already swinging open and colliding with his head.

“Fuck!” He crashes into the trash can, braces himself with one hand in a sticky brown mark on the floor.

“Oh shit! Paolo!” Federico stumbles back. “Sorry, I didn’t see you!”

Lucky for Paolo, the door is cheap, made of hardboard and mostly hollow on the inside. The shock of it is worse than the pain. “It’s fine,” he says, rubbing at his skull where the heat of impact radiates out. “Is the door okay?”

“What? Oh -” Federico checks, then shoots Paolo a grim look. He angles it so Paolo can see the dent his head has put in the surface, fracture cracks radiating out from a central crater. “Fuck, man. I’m sorry.”

He looks so distraught Paolo can’t help but try to soothe him. “It’s okay. I’ll just add it to my debt.”

“What are we adding to your debt?” Assunta asks as she comes in behind Federico. It takes her half a second to see the damage to the door. Her mouth thins.

“It’s my fault,” Federico says. “I hit him in the head.”

Assunta looks sharply at Paolo. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, touched by her concern. “I can come in early tomorrow to replace it. Just put the new door on my tab.”

Federico perks up. “Actually, you’re not on shift tomorrow!”

“Yes I am.” Paolo’s shifts over the Christmas holidays have been a major source of guilt and worry: the store is open tomorrow, shut for the 25th and 26th, then open again for the rest of the week, and he is scheduled for every single day up until New Year’s Day.

This is how he has to pay off his debt, but his hourly wage is so pitiful it is going to take many more months before he is able to make a dent. Mrs Brambilla agreed yesterday to take Italia over the holiday, despite also hosting her large family, which is a huge relief, though it’s not the Christmas he wanted with his daughter.

Federico darts over to the row of coat pegs, grabs his bag and begins digging through it. “I’ve got something here. Just a second.”

Paolo climbs to his feet. Assunta watches him carefully but his head really is fine. More than one teacher at school told him he has a thick skull, no room for a brain, and this only proves them right. He smiles reassurance at her.

Federico ambles back with a glittery wrapped present in his hands. “So this is for Italia.” He thrusts it at Paolo, who catches it out of instinct since he is struck dumb with surprise. He never expected in a million years for someone at work to get something for his daughter. “It’s not much,” Federico adds, hands shoved in his back pockets. “I made it.”

Paolo’s heart squeezes in his chest. “I don’t know what to say.”

“A ‘thank you’ is a start,” Assunta says, but she’s smiling at him.

“Of course, thank you, yes. Can I open it now?”

Federico shrugs. “Sure. I guess Italia’s too young to really do that herself, huh?”

So Paolo tears open the wrapping paper - enthusiastically stuck into place by half a roll of sticking tape - and pulls out the gift inside.

It’s a sock puppet made to look like a dog with two button eyes, floppy felt ears, stitched black whiskers and a pink tongue.

Paolo’s eyes prick with tears.

“That’s so sweet,” Assunta says.

Federico grins. “My grandpa used to make them for me when I was little every time we went to stay in the summer. Grandma used to get so angry that he would use his best socks.”

Paolo pulls the sock puppet over his hand and makes its mouth move. Italia is going to love this. “Thank you,” he says thickly.

“That’s not all, though.” Federico scratches his sparse goatee. “I didn’t know what to get you so -”

“Oh, you don’t need to -”

“No, I know, but -”

“This is already so kind -”

“Yeah but the thing is -”

“I can’t accept -”

“Paolo, shut up!” Assunta laughs as she claps a hand over his arm. “He’s trying to give you something. Shut up and be grateful!”

Paolo shuts up.

“I didn’t know what to get you and I asked my mom and she came up with a gift from my family to yours.” From his pocket he draws out a sheet of folded paper, which he hands to Paolo, who takes it with trembling fingers. “Merry Christmas.”

He unfolds it - still wearing his sock puppet, which makes things difficult - and looks at the print-out. It’s the coming week's schedule: list of staff names down the left-hand side and all their allotted shifts marching across the days.

It takes him a moment to see what’s changed. Where the row next to his name was previously chock full, it’s empty. All his shifts have moved up to Federico’s line.

He looks up at Federico grinning at him.

“But - your family,” Paolo argues weakly. He glances at Assunta. “You let him?”

“Eh, six days isn’t going to make much of an impact. And I’m still hoping you’ll come with me.”

“Assunta, you know I can’t -” They’ve had this discussion at least once a week since she first told him about her promotion, unwilling as she is to accept that Paolo is bound to Turin if for no other reason than familiarity and free childcare.

She waves a hand. “I’ll fight you about it another time. Say ‘thank you Federico’.”

Paolo takes a shuddering breath before he can speak. “Thank you.” He folds the paper closed and holds it against his chest, levelling a direct look at Federico. “And your mother really doesn’t mind? That’s a lot of family time to miss.”

“It was her idea. Besides, I need the money. I want to buy a scooter.”

“Ah, kid, you’re not meant to tell him that bit,” Assunta scolds. “Go on, go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Federico shrugs on his coat, hesitates a second, then swoops in with all his gangly limbs to hug Paolo. Frozen in surprise, Paolo doesn’t have time to hug back before Federico has released him and bounced out the door.

“And I’ll see you in the new year,” Assunta says, following behind Federico as she winds her scarf around her neck. “Merry Christmas. Don’t forget to lock the dumpster.”

The last one to leave by a good half an hour, Paolo does not forget to lock the dumpster.

Waiting for the bus, he keeps the sock puppet on his hand and tells himself it's for the heat rather than a reluctance to take it off. In his other hand - freezing without a glove - he holds his phone. For a moment, he hesitates. Then he models the sock puppet and takes a picture, sending it to _cheesesticks_ before he can second-guess himself.

**look what someone made for italia**

The bus comes, only ten minutes late, and Paolo is grateful to clamber into its paltry warmth. So peculiar to realise that he won’t be making this journey again until 2018. The whole week spills before him, just himself and Italia and the holiday spirit. He hasn’t been a Christmas kind of person in years. Having a child of his own has changed his perception, however; he remembers the excitement he used to feel as a very small boy, and he wants that for Italia.

_**Very cute.**_

_**She’ll love it.**_

She really does love it: Mr Brambilla, pipe in his mouth, opens the door with Italia sitting on his forearm. She squeals loud enough to wake the dead and wobbles towards Paolo, straining for the sock puppet on his hand. Paolo props her on his hip and makes the puppet say, “Hello.” She shrieks with laughter, and it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.

“Hello Paolo.” Mrs Brambilla shuffles up behind her husband, Italia’s blanket over her shoulder and a Tupperware box in her hand. She looks exhausted, grey and puffy in her face, deep bags under her eyes.

“Are you alright?” Paolo asks.

“Tsh, yes, of course.”

Mr Brambilla grunts with obvious disagreement.

“Hush, you. Here, Paolo.” Mrs Brambilla wraps the blanket around his neck like a scarf; up close, he can’t miss her laboured breathing. “And this is for you.” The box digs into his stomach when she shoves it at him. “Pezzetti and panettone for Christmas Day when we’re not here. Merry Christmas.”

God, he hasn’t had pezzetti since he lived in Rome just after he left the orphanage. His mouth waters.

There’s no point trying to turn down the gift. Mrs Brambilla will only bluster at him until he accepts. “Thank you so much.”

She pats his cheek. “You’re a good boy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Paolo brightens at the reminder. “Actually, I have the whole week off. So you can rest and take care of yourself.”

“There’s no resting at Christmas for a grandmother!” Mrs Brambilla chortles, then coughs on the catch of it in her chest.

Mr Brambilla clucks his tongue and begins to herd her back into their apartment. The fact that she doesn’t resist him is the biggest tell of all. “Good night Paolo,” she says. “Good night sweet Italia.”

Italia squawks at the sound of her name.

“Good night, both of you,” Paolo says before the door shuts.

Upstairs, it’s still a surprise to walk in and see Christmas decorations, even though he was the one who put them up. He had to go out and buy them - the few that he and Mario had owned, Mario took with him; Paolo hadn’t thought to miss them, as this is his first Christmas since he and Mario split up - so now he is the proud owner of a little ceppo wreathed in tinsel, though the three pyramid tiers are decidedly sparse right now. Maybe tomorrow he and Italia will go out to buy the sweets and little presents that normally fill a ceppo up.

Though it’s late - almost midnight, in fact - Italia is wide awake. Paolo plops her down into her playpen where she scoots on her backside to her favourite toy: a stuffed rabbit with a large mirror in its belly. She babbles at her reflection.

“Yes, sweetheart, she is very pretty.” With Italia properly distracted, Paolo can sort out his stuff with both arms free. Pezzetti goes in the fridge, panettone in the breadbox, coat on the hook, shoes on a high shelf out of Italia’s inquisitive explorations, sock puppet tucked into his back pocket for later. Mrs Brambilla has been introducing solid foods to Italia’s mealtimes, but before bed Paolo sticks to a bottle of formula milk, which he warms up now, testing it on his inner wrist to make sure it isn’t too hot.

He’s surprised by the buzz of his phone. Normally, this late at night, he only gets texts from _cheesesticks_ because Paolo himself has reached out in need.

_**What are your plans for Xmas?**_

**a week of no work**

**and you?**

He slips his phone into his pocket when Italia screeches at him from the playpen. “Hello little angel.” Her eyes widen when she sees the bottle. She lets out a stream of noise that Paolo does his level best to respond to: “Yes, a midnight meal. Are you hungry? You are? Come on then.” He sweeps her into his arms before flopping onto the sofa. Italia likes to sit up to eat, as much as she can at any rate, with both hands holding the bottle while Paolo tips it at the very end.

Now that he is sitting, exhaustion drags his eyelids down. God, a whole week off work. He could cry thinking about all the sleep he is going to indulge in.

His phone vibrates again, and he has to dig it out of his pocket one-handed while keeping Italia steady. It takes some contorting.

_**Home alone.**_

_**Saar is with her mother.**_

_**I’ll get started on the new store so we can open in Jan.**_

Typing with his thumb only, Paolo looks up ‘Saar’ but it doesn’t appear to be an English word. Then he runs the sentence through a translator and it dawns on him that ‘Saar’ is the name of _cheesestick_ ’s daughter.

The irony of knowing his daughter’s name before the name of the man himself makes Paolo smile.

**that is a lonely xmas**

**I will talk to you**

**because italia doesn’t speak yet**

**however she can scream very loud**

Italia finishes her bottle and shoves it out of her mouth with her usual melodrama, burping emphatically afterwards. Abandoning the bottle and his phone on the coffee table, Paolo stands up with Italia against his chest. Like her mother, she is a reluctant sleeper, but he has a whole ritual now for winding her down.

First, a gentle dance around the living room, stroking her back as her little feet kick his stomach. When she’s finished straining, he knows it’s time to change her diaper. A month ago she learnt how to roll from her back to her front and reverse, which means he has to pin her with a hand to the changing mat on the floor in order to strip off her day clothes and her soiled diaper. She wriggles anyway, squawking indignantly when he manages to keep a palm on her, rolling off the mat as soon as he needs both hands.

With the battle finished, Italia clean and dressed and the clock ticking over into a new day, he switches off the lights and takes her to the bedroom where he pulls out a book gifted to her by Mrs Brambilla. It is full of different textures for her to touch, flaps that need to be lifted, drawings of farmyard animals that all require Paolo to make the appropriate noises - this time out of the mouth of the sock puppet, to Italia's smiley delight. Most nights he reads it at least twice, until Italia flops against his shoulder with a yawn, rubbing her eyes with little fists.

The final step is to plug her mouth with a pacifier and place her in her Moses basket - another month or two and she’ll be too big for it - with his hand splayed over the swell of her belly. She usually fusses until he starts to sing. Regardless of the song choice, she listens with fading intensity until, between one verse and the next, her eyes slip shut. Paolo lets his head droop to his chest.

In the living room, his phone buzzes on the table.

He considers ignoring it. It’s nearly one in the morning and he worked a split shift today. He’s _tired_.

But what if _cheesesticks_ needs something? The man has been nothing but generous with his time and advice for Paolo, and it sounds like he is going to have a miserable Christmas.

Sighing, Paolo rolls off the bed - Italia doesn’t stir; once she’s out, she’s out - and pads back to the coffee table, thumbing open his phone.

_**You aren’t going to be with family?**_

Paolo bites his lip and types with hesitance.

**there is no one else**

**just me and italia**

He stands in the dark in his living room waiting for the reply, his stomach a flutter of nerves. The shame of being an orphan still lingers, made all the more keen after losing Mario and Mia. He is rejected, unwanted. It hurts to think that the opinion of this man might likewise sour, for all that he is seven hundred miles away and Paolo doesn’t even know his name.

But Paolo should have more faith. The relief when he reads the reply inflates in him like helium.

**_**It’ll be you, me and Italia then.**_**

_**I can’t wait to see all the photos you take.**_

* * *

The beauty of Italia being so late to sleep is that she is also late to rise. Paolo drifts to consciousness because his bladder wills it. Outside his window, the sun is well up, the sky that thin airy blue of a cold winter morning. Italia has rolled onto her front in her sleep. Paolo gently scoots her onto her back. She flails her limbs and smacks her lips, but otherwise remains undisturbed.

On the toilet, he squints at his phone. There’s a new message from _cheesesticks_ from a couple of hours ago, when Paolo was dreaming.

_**I’m awake now.**_

_**Going to the new store.**_

**I just woke up**

**italia is still sleeping**

The next reply comes fast. Paolo can’t help but imagine this man; nameless and faceless, yet he can well picture the slump of his shoulders, or the way his head might perk up at the trill of his phone.

_**Are you going to stay in today?**_

_**Catch up on all your sleep?**_

Paolo brushes his teeth and considers himself in the mirror: toothpaste foam bracketing his mouth, perpetual dark circles around his eyes, his hair getting long and floppy over his forehead. Mrs Brambilla’s steady supply of leftovers have put some meat on his cheeks too. He looks as well and rested as he ever has, like someone who maybe can take on the trials of the day.

**we are going out today**

**piazza castello has a market**

**do you want to see?**

_**I’d love to.**_

It must be difficult to be separated from his daughter during the holiday. Paolo wonders if it happens every year. This is his first Christmas with Italia; he would hate for it to be his only.

Thinking of _cheesesticks_ all alone in Amsterdam propels Paolo back into the bedroom where Italia is just beginning to stir. If he works fast, he can have her dressed without the usual wrestle-roll-pin manoeuvring they go through at night.

By the time she’s fully awake, Paolo already has Italia in the high chair with a bowl of water-softened cereal ready for her to fling everywhere, and a bottle of warm milk for after.

He sends a picture of her with cereal in the fine brown wisps of her hair, and gets a laughing emoji in reply. Then _cheesesticks_ returns a picture of his new store, dusty and cluttered with cardboard boxes and old metal shelves.

**at least you will be busy**

After Italia’s breakfast - so late it technically counts as lunch - Paolo packs a bag with every possible thing he has learnt she might need: a dozen diapers, four pacifiers, two bottles of formula, a change of clothes, her favourite blanket, the new sock puppet, and a ring of colourful plastic keys. He wrangles her into a coat and shoes, despite her loud protests. Then, bag looped over his chest, Italia on his hip and her folded stroller under his arm, he heads downstairs.

He only has to go back up once, for his own coat, which says volumes about the healing properties of sleep. In the past, he has been up and down these stairs like a yo-yo after forgetting one thing or another.

A true Turin winter is cold and windy with the threat of rain, and today is no exception. Already the sky is beginning to thicken with clouds. Waiting for the bus becomes an exercise in keeping Italia covered, as she seems determined to throw off her blanket, shoes, and mittens.

It’s standing room only on the bus that goes direct to the piazza, so Paolo is not very popular with his stroller, but the fact that he ‘accidentally’ rams people’s legs means he finds a space opposite a mother and her toddler. The boy and Italia stare in fascination at each other; Paolo is reminded, with a guilty wince, that Italia is meant to socialise with other babies, something he hasn’t managed to do at all yet.

A new year’s resolution, then.

Piazza Castello is transformed at Christmastime with row upon row of little Alp-style chalet stalls selling artisanal chocolates and cheeses, handmade toys, seasonal decorations, beer and cider and mulled wine, scented soaps and bathbombs and all other kinds of frivolous goods to ease the weight of a customer’s money in their pockets. The usual sounds of the water fountains have been replaced by hundreds of people crowded together talking and bargaining and laughing.

Paolo joins the stream. With Italia facing outward, he can’t see how she is coping with this strange new environment, so paranoia has him stopping every two minutes to check how she’s doing. After half an hour of this, though, where each time he finds Italia staring with wide-eyed wonder at the hustle and bustle, he cautiously allows himself to relax. He likes big gatherings such as this, likes the hum of conversation and the ebb and flow of people, likes being part of something larger than himself. After months of work and home and nothing more, it’s a comfort to be absorbed into the crowd.

On impulse, he buys a fluffy little rabbit toy for Italia, who holds it for all of five seconds before she loses interest. He takes a picture and sends it to _cheesesticks_.

_**Very sweet!**_

**she is not so impressed**

_**Kids are fickle.**_

Paolo has to stand to one side out of the flow in order to look up that word.

Italia is much more keen on the sliver of milk chocolate Paolo slides past her lips, grabbing for the second and smearing a decent amount of the third around her mouth instead of in it. That requires another picture.

**expert eater of chocolate**

_**Isn’t that how you eat yours?**_

**I try to put food in my mouth**

_**Food should be experienced with the whole body.**_

After an hour of wandering, Italia is nodding off and Paolo is bored. The stroller is decently loaded with presents for Mr and Mrs Brambilla, Federico and Federico’s generous mother, and - on a whim - even Assunta. He has taken and sent dozens of photos of dubious quality: of the stalls, the crowds, the buildings surrounding the piazza, and especially of Italia. _cheesesticks_ has liked every one.

But Paolo is reluctant to go home; it seems a waste of the monumental effort of taking Italia out in the first place. Now, standing at the end of the row of chalet stalls, people streaming past him, Paolo chews his bottom lip and considers the bus stop on the main road, when he realises he is inadvertently staring at someone looking back.

A someone, he realises with a jolt, who is painfully familiar.

It’s too late to melt back into the crowd. Paolo can only stand rigid with something like terror as Mario crosses the road. Accusations echo in his mind - all of them true - about Paolo stalking Mario, distrustful before they broke up, jealous after. The problems with Turin are two-fold: first, it is a damningly small city; and second, it is Mario’s home turf.

He stops two meters shy of Italia’s stroller, hands casually in his pockets and his lovely curls buffeted by the cold breeze, and smiles at Paolo, a punch to his chest that aches in radiating waves after.

“I thought you didn’t celebrate Christmas?” Mario says.

Paolo has to swallow the boulder in his throat before he can speak. “Children do.” His fingers drum the stroller handholds as Mario’s gaze drops to Italia, fast asleep. “How are you?”

Eight years of living with this man allows Paolo a certain insight when Mario’s smile thins at the edges. “I’m good, thanks. How are you?”

Paolo twitches a shoulder. “Better.” Better than he was when Mario travelled all the way to Calabria to bring him back to Turin. Better than he was when Mario left him. Better than he was at the torturous end of their relationship. “Better.”

Mario nods slowly. “Good.”

The silence that falls between them is as excruciating as ever. Paolo casts around for anything to say, a gracious exit line or _something_ , but words have never been his strong suit.

Mario gets in first. “Do you want to get a drink?”

“Right now?”

“Sure.” Mario points at a chalet stall just behind Paolo. “Hot chocolate? Come on, my treat.” He sweeps past, digging into his coat pocket for his wallet. Paolo gives serious consideration to making a run for the bus stop but, with a sigh, he turns the stroller around to head back into the crowded market. He has hurt Mario enough for one lifetime; there’s no need to add to his list of sins.

In short order, Mario has two hot chocolates in his hands. He leads Paolo through a gap between two stalls to the wrought iron tables and chairs belonging to one of the cafes at the edge of the piazza. Paolo sits, turning the stroller to face him more for a distraction than because Italia needs anything; she is of an age, so the parenting websites tell him, where a large portion of her day is spent asleep, and she is demonstrating this aptly now. Still, he tucks her blanket in more securely, makes sure her woollen hat is covering her ears, and places the new fluffy bunny next to her head.

Straightening up, he reaches for the hot chocolate and takes a sip that scorches his top lip, but can’t avoid looking at Mario any longer. He glances up.

Mario’s eyes dart away. There’s no mistaking the pain carved into the corners of his mouth.

Paolo swallows more hot chocolate and blames the agony in his throat on its burning descent.

“You’ve been busy,” Mario says with a nod at the brown paper bags hanging from the stroller’s handles. “Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve?”

“Better late than never.”

“That’s why I’m here too. Valerio actually celebrates Christmas.” He chuckles wryly. “I didn’t realise how much you let me get away with.”

It’s a grimace more than a smile that Paolo forces onto his face. “I’ve never been used to receiving presents. You respected that.”

“That’s kind of you to say.” Mario sighs, swirling the chocolate in his cup as the steam rises. “But now I’m out of practice. I wouldn’t have bought anything at all if I hadn’t caught Valerio wrapping mine up last night.” He shrugs, flicking a quick glance under his lashes at Paolo. “I forgot what a normal Christmas is meant to be like.”

 _Normal_.

If ever there was a word in their eight years together that could start an argument, _normal_ is it. They must have screamed it at each other a dozen times in their last fight alone. _It’s normal to want children. It’s normal to get married. I just want us to be normal._

_I’ll never be normal and neither will you._

Paolo drinks more of his chocolate. The hurt bubbles under his tongue. In her stroller, Italia kicks her feet in a dream, face pinching until Paolo strokes a finger over her cheek.

“I’m glad you get to have a normal Christmas, Mario,” he says hoarse, avoiding Mario’s face as he fiddles with the blanket again. “You deserve it.”

“I’m glad _she_ gets to have a normal Christmas,” Mario says.

Paolo clenches his jaw, looking up at Mario from his hunched position. Spine wired tight, Mario purses his lips. Then, closing his eyes, his shoulders abruptly uncoil and he sighs long through his nose.

“I’m sorry,” Mario says. He offers a wan smile when he opens his eyes. “Old habits. It’s been less than a year.”

Paolo balks. So much has happened since Mario left him, it’s difficult to believe less than twelve months have passed.

Italia wriggles again, frowning as she begins to surface out of sleep. She’s always grumpy after a nap. Paolo gulps the last of the hot chocolate and stands. “I have to go.”

“Wait, Paolo.” Mario catches his hand. Even now, after so much history between them, the touch sparks like electricity along his nerves.

He swallows hard, fingers twitching. “What?”

The gentle sweep of Mario’s thumb across the back of his hand nearly undoes him. Cuddling Italia is a joy he never experienced before but he misses the touch of another, misses skin-to-skin connection with another man, yearns and aches for it.

Mario’s phone trills some custom ringtone in his pocket and he lets go of Paolo’s hand like it burns.

“Valerio?” Paolo guesses.

Mario nods, hand on his pocket where his phone is ringing. He doesn’t pull it out. His dark eyes flick from Paolo to Italia and back.

Italia mewls in her stroller and it jolts Paolo into action. “Bye Mario.” He propels himself away before he can hear Mario answer the phone.

At the bus stop he speed-smokes a cigarette clamped between shaking fingers while Italia drags herself out of sleep. She needs a diaper change and a warm bottle of milk, but of course the bus is running late. By the time they get on one heading home, she’s in full meltdown, inconsolable even rocked in his arms with a song sung lowly in her ear. He receives a few sympathetic looks from other passengers. Two little boys stand next to him staring at Italia’s scrunched red face. All of it adds block by block to the weight across his shoulders. One wrong move, and he worries that it will all come tumbling down around him.

He doesn’t even have a hand free to message _cheesesticks_ , though the desire to reach out is as strong as it was when Italia had colic and Paolo was desperate for sleep. It’s a different flavour of desperation that makes his heart race now.

For some reason, the bus stops in the middle of the road rather than at the edge of the sidewalk, which requires Paolo to wrestle the stroller down while dodging traffic, and Italia is still screaming in his ear.

The reason becomes apparent as he approaches his building, though. There’s a small crowd of people near an ambulance with its back door open and lights flashing. As he approaches, a stretcher is wheeled out by two paramedics, trailed by - Paolo’s heart lurches - Mr Brambilla and a couple of daughters Paolo vaguely recognises from framed photos.

On the stretcher, being carefully loaded into the ambulance, lies Mrs Brambilla.

* * *

The welcome stream of photos and commentaries live from Turin cease without notice as the sun is just sinking behind the multi-storey apartment blocks. Daan only really realises when he stops to pick up his phone for the fifth time in as many minutes without hearing the familiar vibration.

_**Everything ok?**_

There’s no reply. A dozen reasons spring to mind. Maybe his battery died, or Italia is being fussy, or he got called into work. A little dejected, Daan stuffs the phone back in his pocket. Paolo’s photos were just about the only thing able to make him smile at all today.

Well, at least he won’t be distracted from work any more. Hands on his hips, Daan surveys the progress so far. A stack of metal shelves waits by the door ready to be dragged out. He’s got a dozen little nicks on his fingers from the sharp edges as he dismantled them. The carpet is half rolled up but someone stuck this part down with super glue or something. Daan gives it another hard tug but gets only friction burn and strained muscles. God knows how he is going to get it off the concrete beneath.

He checks his phone again, like a reflexive twitch, but there’s still nothing. For a moment he debates sending something to Paolo, or even to Saar. There’s nothing to stop him - except his own burbling shame. Paolo is a man with his own life; he’s been kind enough to share it with Daan this afternoon as a form of entertainment, but that doesn’t excuse Daan’s neediness. And Saar - well, with any luck she is at home with Inge.

Daan slides his phone resolutely into his pocket and resigns himself to spending the rest of Christmas Eve alone.

Next on the job list is stripping the walls. For some reason, the previous owner decided corrugated metal panels painted a moody crimson were the way to go. They look solidly nailed into places. Daan faces off against the offending wall with a hammer in one hand and a crowbar in the other. In a perverse way, he’s in just the right mood to take on something physical.

Aggressively focused on ripping the wall to pieces, Daan loses track of time. In fact he doesn’t realise that evening is well in until the godawful overhead strip lights flicker on. He blinks in the harsh acidic light and spins on one foot towards the back entrance with his crowbar raised; a nice family neighbourhood this might be, but that doesn’t mean some asshole won’t try it on.

Bas grins at him.

“What the hell?” Daan lets the crowbar drop as his racing heartbeat climbs down.

“Surprise!”

“You scared the living shit out of me.”

Bas strolls closer, arms opened wide. “You’ll forgive me though, right?” he says with a shit-eating smile.

“I’ll think about it,” Daan replies, but of course he welcomes Bas into his arms for a back-slapping hug. “What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were meant to be on the Australia leg. Where’s Mara?”

When Bas pulls back, there’s an ugly sneer on his face. “I don’t know where she is and I don’t care. She’s a bitch. Last time I saw her was in a dive bar in Bangkok.”

Daan blinks at the vitriol. Bas has always been crude but he’s not normally vicious. “What happened?”

Bas scoffs, wrenching himself away. “Who the fuck cares? I’m tired of talking about it already.” He wheels about in a circle with his arms outstretched; if Daan hadn’t just been close enough to smell his breath, he’d think Bas was drunk. “I wanna go to De Wallen. Get some real pussy.” He grabs his crotch and leers. “Get you some as well, yeah? You look like you could use a good fuck.”

Sighing, Daan scrubs his wrist across his sweaty brow. “It’s Christmas Eve, Bas.”

“So we’ll get some festive hookers! Maybe they’ll have a seasonal sale on!”

“I’m _really_ not in the mood -”

“Please.” The word, softly uttered, brings Daan up short. In all his years of friendship with Bas since they first met at school, he can count on one hand the times Bas has asked for something. His mouth twists now, eyes fixed on Daan. “Please,” he says again. “I need to - I need to get out of my head.”

Daan stares. “What the hell happened to you two?”

Bas’ jaw clenches. “Yes or no, Daan?”

“Yes, yeah, sure, okay.” Against his better judgement, but Bas is a friend, and Daan would do a lot more for him than supervise a trip to a brothel.

It’s worth it to see that tense, vulnerable look on Bas’ face melt into his usual cocky grin. He claps his hands once, rubs them together. “Excellent. C’mon, I’ve got a car parked illegally out the back.”

Great, Daan’s going to be _super_ popular with his neighbours. He hasn’t even opened for business yet.

“I need to tidy up here, and I want a shower at home.”

“God, you’re such a girl sometimes,” Bas jeers.

Daan rolls his eyes and ignores the comment. “I’ll meet you there, yes? Outside the Bananenbar?”

“Fuck yes. You know my taste.”

Insofar as Bas can be said to have _any_ taste, then yes, Daan knows it. “Go, before someone calls to complain about your damn car.”

Bas claps him on the shoulder. “We’re gonna have one hell of a fucking night, I promise you.”

Daan pastes on a smile and nods. “Yep.”

Bas bounces out of the store, leaving Daan chewing his lip as he puzzles over this development. Bas has always been intense, and Mara is … even more intense, is probably the nicest way to put it. The two of them together were like gunpowder and flame. Daan hoped they would keep each other satisfied, but it was always a long shot. He’s just surprised they burned out so soon: they’ve only been married six months, and most of that time they've been overseas on a globetrotting honeymoon. Honey year. Whatever.

He potters around for another half an hour. Now his rhythm is broken, though, Daan’s all too aware of the ache in his back and shoulders, sweat soaked cold into his shirt, the cuts on his fingers stinging with salt and dust. He stinks to high heaven. He wants to go home, take a long hot shower, eat a bowl of cereal and go to sleep.

If he hurries, he can maybe check off all but the last on his list.

Outside, the cloak of night has brought a bitter wind that freezes the sweat in his hair. Daan bolts the door shut top, middle and bottom, hands burning at the touch of icy metal. He thinks of the long walk to the metro station, hunching his aching shoulders against the cold, his thigh muscles straining for speed after a day of heavy lifting, and decides to give himself an impromptu Christmas present by calling a cab. They’ll be busy tonight, but it’s worth it.

Twenty minutes later, when he’s sure his sweat-damp hair is beginning to frost over, a cab finally arrives and Daan slips gratefully into its warm interior.

“Heading off for a fun night?” the driver asks when the destination pops up on his GPS.

Daan dredges up energy from somewhere. “Home first.” He catches a whiff of himself inside his coat and wrinkles his nose. “I need a shower.”

There’s traffic heading into the cultural centre, of course. Daan nearly nods off to the sound of the driver singing along with the radio’s Christmas hits, jerking awake at the persistent vibration of his phone against his thigh. He digs it out, expecting Bas or maybe Saar.

His heart skips a beat when he sees Roderick’s name flash on the screen.

“Hello? Roderick?”

A siren wails in the background.

“Daan? Daan? Can you hear me?” Roderick is almost shouting against the noise around him, the siren and people barking orders and the growl of a powerful engine. Daan’s never heard him sound so distressed.

“Yes, I can hear you!” he shouts back, ignoring the flash of the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “What’s going on? Is Saar okay?”

Static, and more garbled noise. “- with Inge! She’s home alone! You need to go to our house!”

The phone creaks in his hand with Daan gripping it so tight. “Saar’s home alone?”

“Yes! I have to -” The call abruptly drops. Daan’s left blinking at the screen.

“Fuck. Fuck.” He scoots to the edge of his seat. “Turn around! Take me to De Pijp!”

To his credit, the driver doesn’t so much as question it, just takes the next available U-turn and merges into the easier traffic heading south. “Is there a problem?”

Daan tugs at his hair and flicks through his phone contacts. “My daughter, she’s home alone. Something’s happened.” God, he wishes he had bought Saar that iPhone she wanted.

“I’ll get you there,” the driver says, accelerating a little faster.

Thrumming with tension, Daan sits on the edge of his seat, bouncing his knees and biting his lip to shreds as the car weaves through traffic. He digs cash out in preparation, clenches it in his sweating hand as he directs the driver left, right, left again. De Pijp, artisanally hip, is more crowded. At yet another red light, two narrow streets away from Inge’s house, Daan’s nerves can no longer take it. He throws the money into the front passenger seat and jumps out the door, leaving the driver spluttering with surprise behind him. Daan doesn’t care. His only thought is of Saar, alone and frightened at home after God only knows what’s happened with Inge.

He takes off at a dead sprint, dodging seasonal revellers spilling from cafes and bars, skipping out of the path of oncoming bikes. His heart pounds and his lungs burn and his legs scream and none of it registers. All along the street of gentrified terraces, lights gleam out of windows and doors are shut tight against the cold.

All but one.

Daan stumbles to a halt at Inge’s front door, yawning open like a black maw, Saar’s key and dangly keychain still in the lock. No lights are on inside.

“Saartje?” He steps over the threshold. “Sweetheart? Are you here?” Fumbling against the wall, he flicks all the switches under his fingers and the room illuminates from a dozen sources.

Shining darkly red in the centre is a puddle of blood, streaked at the edges where something was dragged through.

Daan balks, gorge rising, and presses the back of his hand to his mouth. He tears his eyes away, scanning the room.

A ragged breath to his left, there in the corner where the heavy curtains are drawn back. He spies the tip of one shoe sticking out.

“Saar,” he says softly. He hurries to her, peeling away the curtain to reveal her hiding place, tucked small with her arms over her head to cover her face.

Daan goes to his knees with relief and grabs her to him. Saar yelps, flailing her limbs. Then she seems to register his presence, finally, because she latches onto with a death-grip, shoves her face into his shoulder and screams.

It shakes Daan to his core. He can only hold onto her as tight as she’s holding him, rocking her side to side as she sucks in a shuddering breath and coughs out an animal moan. “It’s alright,” he soothes, his voice squeezed small through the agony in his throat. “I’m here. You’re okay, sweetheart.”

“They - were - gone,” she chokes, hiccuping through every word. “Ev-everyone - was - gone. Where’s mama?”

Daan secures her in his arms before he rises to his feet on shaking legs. “We’ll go find her now. C’mon.”

Saar makes no effort to climb down, and Daan has no intention of letting her go. His chest aches with more than the exertion of running all this way. Avoiding the sickly puddle, Daan switches off the lights and shuts the front door, pocketing Saar’s key. He’s just fumbling for his phone when a car horn bips.

When he looks up, his taxi driver waves at him through the open passenger door.

Daan slides in with Saar shivering on his lap and pulls the door closed.

“It seemed pretty desperate,” the driver says by way of explanation. “Where to?”

“Wherever’s the nearest emergency room.” Saar clings harder at his words. Daan strokes her hair, the only comfort he can offer.

“Right.”

Halfway there, Daan’s phone buzzes with a text, but he can’t get to his phone without shifting Saar sat illegally on his lap, and he has no interest in moving her.

The sick feeling in his stomach grows as they pull up at the hospital drop-off. Daan shuffles out with Saar still latched on like a limpet. He almost forgets to pay, muttering under his breath as he digs for his wallet one-handed.

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” the driver says.

Daan blinks against the sting of more than just the cold night air. “Are you sure?”

“My good deed for the night. Merry Christmas.”

“Yeah,” is all Daan can manage.

The driver offers a sad smile before Daan closes the door and he drives away.

Inside, the bright lights hurt Daan’s eyes. The waiting room heaves with the walking wounded and Daan’s gut churns at the antiseptic chemical smell. He approaches the desk where three receptionists work with brisk efficiency as half a dozen nurses in green scrubs flit behind them.

“Can I help?” asks the redhead.

“Yeah, please.” He pats a hand against Saar’s back. “Her mother was brought in earlier. Inge Desmedt.”

“And you are?”

“I’m her ex-husband. This is our daughter. Please.”

The redhead smiles sympathetically as she taps away at her keyboard. “I can’t release any details right now, but I see her current husband is with her? If you take a seat, I’ll let him know you’re here.”

In his arms, Saar sags with a sudden release of tension; Daan has to scramble to keep her from falling. “Sure, thanks. Hey, Saar, sweetheart.” He drops into the nearest free chair, leaning Saar back so he can see her expression. Her lids droop half-closed as she looks back at him with dead eyes. Daan holds her face between his palms and presses their foreheads together. “She’ll be okay,” he says. “She’ll be okay, Saar. I promise.”

“So much blood,” she whispers, barely audible over the din of a Christmas emergency room.

Daan sweeps her into another tight hug. Saar’s arms hang loose at her sides, like she’s too exhausted to lift them. Daan pulls them up, squashed between her chest and his, while her head slides on a boneless neck to rest under his jaw.

Then all they can do is wait.

Time doesn’t seem to pass in a hospital waiting room. Ambulances zip past with their lights flashing. Nurses come and go collecting a never-ending stream of patients. His phone buzzes sporadically in his pocket. The clock hands seem to barely move every time Daan looks. He can’t tell whether Saar is asleep or just passively numb in his arms.

Before Roderick even makes an appearance, Inge’s parents arrive. Daan doesn’t spot them until Kees is at the reception desk, trailing his wife Lotte as she worries a handkerchief fretfully between her fingers.

“Hey,” he calls over Saar’s head. “Kees. Lotte.”

Lotte’s face breaks at the sight of Saar slumped over her father. She hurries towards them, reaching out with a badly shaking hand to stroke over Saar’s head, then bends to press a kiss to her crown. “I’m so sorry, my angel.”

“Do you know what happened? She’s not talking.”

Lotte blinks and tears drip unheeded down her cheeks. “She tried to call us from the home phone. Inge has the number programmed in. But we didn’t pick up. She left a voice mail saying she was playing with friends and when she came home there was - there was blood -” She gulps a sob, turning sickly green.

Kees, coming up behind his wife, rests a hand on her shoulder and looks down at Saar with sombre eyes. “I’m sorry. They won’t tell me anything.”

“Roderick is coming,” Daan says, and nods at the seats opposite. “If you sit down, can you hold Saar for a while? I need the bathroom.”

Saar doesn’t resist the handover, which tells Daan she’s actually asleep, so he slips away feeling marginally less guilty. He hurries to the gents, finds an empty stall, closes the door and sits on the toilet, and only then does he let his heart shatter into silent pieces, biting his coat sleeve to stop from crying out loud.

There are too many emotions to name welling up inside him, black as oil and twice as thick, choking his throat and bleeding through his veins. He takes wheezing sips of air around his mouthful of material, eyes squeezed so tight he sees white specks, feels dizzy as more and more agony rips through his chest. There’s no where to put all the pain, no place he can unleash it. Stuck inside a toilet stall alone while a building full of miserable people suffer their own personal hells. His little girl comatose on her grandfather’s lap as somewhere her mother lays - bleeding? dying? dead? - and Daan’s goddamn phone is buzzing against his thigh _again_.

He yanks it out with every intent to flush it down the toilet when he spies Bas’ name. Fuck. God, he completely forgot. He’ll have been stood outside Bananenbar in the freezing cold waiting for Daan. Guilt curdles in his gullet like sour milk.

It rings off before he can bring himself to answer. Daan feels worse for feeling relieved. There are three text messages from Bas that he swipes away, eyes too blurry to read properly as he swallows and swallows against a swelling clot of tears.

A message from Roderick confirming the hospital, three hours too late.

An earlier message from Bas instructing Daan to wear something “fuckable”. Daan could scream, if there was anyone who would hear it.

The final message is from Paolo.

**this city is very small**

Daan has no idea what that means, and honestly doesn’t much care. He hesitates for a fraction of a second and then hits the green Call button.

It rings two long droning tones before the line connects.

“Cheesesticks?” says a strong Italian accent.

Daan garbles a wet laugh.

“Oh. Are you okay?”

Palm pressed trembling over his eyes, Daan shakes his head silently.

“I think maybe there is something wrong, yes?”

Coughing, Daan manages to croak, “Yeah.”

“Can you talk to me?”

It feels like his throat has been lined with razor blades and barbed wire. “No,” he grits out. “Sorry.”

Paolo shushes him. “Okay. It's okay. I am here and Italia is here too.” He switches to a stream of Italian; in the background, the baby chirps happily back at her father. Daan can't understand a word of it; somehow, that's better, like drifting in a bath or a dream, the hazy world just out of focus.

Someone knocks on the stall door, dragging him back from his daze. “Are you nearly done? There’s a line.”

Daan shuffles out, but only goes as far as the wall opposite the gents. His phone is glued to his ear, his whole focus fixed on the gentle rumble of Paolo’s voice chatting to Italia. He rubs the heel of his hand against his sternum where his heart throbs.

“You sound better,” Paolo says, switching back to English. “How is your daughter? Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she’s okay.” Sighing, Daan tips his head back against the wall behind him. “Her mother has been rushed to hospital. I think she might lose -” He can’t finish the sentence, takes a weak breath where the words should be.

There’s a pause on Paolo’s side before he speaks again. “My English is very bad, sorry. My teacher says that I have to practice more.”

“You speak great English,” Daan says reflexively.

“Thank you. That’s very nice of you.” Dishes clink over the line while Daan flattens himself to allow a wide gurney to trundle past. “I still don’t know your name. I can call you _cheesesticks_ if you like.”

Daan smiles despite himself. “My name is Daan.”

“Hello Daan. I’m Paolo.”

“I know. Your username made that pretty obvious.”

Paolo scoffs. “It could be - how is it called - a lie.”

“Who would come up with _paolo1988_ as a fake name?”

“Well, why did you choose _cheesesticks_?”

Daan closes his eyes to reach back for the memory. “That’s what I was eating when I signed up to the forum. Saar always wanted to be held so I couldn’t cook anything and the only finger food we had was a packet of cheesesticks. I was hungry and desperate and it was the only username I could think of.”

Paolo laughs awkwardly. “I think I understood half of that.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s good practice for me. So now you are _cheesesticks_ , giving advice to new fathers.” Paolo sighs down the line. “You have been so helpful since we talked the first time. I was very worried at the start but now I am only a little bit worried.”

“A little bit worried is standard, I think,” Daan says.

Somewhere along the Mediterranean, Italia starts to cry. “ _Cazzo_. I have to go now. Do you feel better?”

 _Better_ is probably too strong a word, but Daan feels less like he swallowed a hurricane. “Yeah. Thanks, Paolo. Thank you for answering.”

“You can call us any time. Yes, Italia?” He holds the phone closer to her so Daan gets an earful of her wailing. “She says goodbye.”

“Goodbye Italia,” Daan says, and waits for Paolo to hang up.

He rests where he is, slumped against the wall, phone held loosely in his hand, and breathes steadily until he’s built up the strength to go back to the waiting room, to his ex-in-laws and his daughter and whatever else awaits him.

It takes ten minutes. But he manages it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going radio silent for the next month as I frantically bash out the rest of my TOG Big Bang. I'll be back in March!


End file.
